Roughing the Passer
by stephk0525
Summary: Oklahoma University QB and draft hopeful Riley Biers is on the precipice of a promising NFL career. His childhood dreams are about to materialize, yet Riley's thoughts are consumed with rival Florida QB Jasper Whitlock. Addition to Fandom4SAA o/s.
1. Chapter 1 Illegal Use of Hands

**Disclaimer: **This little ditty is rated M/NC-17. It's of the slashy-type variety; if that's not your bag, it's all good. No worries.I do not own Twilight or any of the characters created by that other Stephenie chick. I am, however, a bona fide football geek that wanted Riley and Jasper to do naughty things to each other. Rawr.

**Good to know before you read:** The Wonderlich Test is an IQ test given to QB's before their rookie year in the NFL. 3.2 is the percentage of alcohol by weight of beer sold in grocery stores according to liquor laws in the state of Oklahoma.

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><p><strong>Roughing the Passer<strong>

**Chapter 1 - Illegal Use of Hands**

Illegal Use of Hands: Penalty against a player on offense while attempting to ward off a block, cover a receiver, or tackle a ballcarrier.

**Riley POV**

"Good stuff, Biers. Smooth drop backs, good work in the pocket. Nice check-downs too; you've really improved on gettin' hammered by the blitz since the Rose Bowl. That's huge, son."

"Thanks coach, I watched a lot of film," I say, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I know he's trying to give me encouragement, but the memories of losing the biggest game of my college career are far too fresh and sting like a bitch. It's only been a little over a month since I was bested on national television of all fucking places.

_Cut that shit. Thinking like that is not gonna get you anywhere. This is what's important. Right now is what decides your future. Dude, you are at the fucking NFL Combine! You need to check your shit and focus._

Out of breath and thirsty as hell, I jog over to the sidelines and grab a water from one of the trainers. Practically inhaling the contents, I take a moment to regroup and compose myself. As I mentally replay my performance in the passing drills we've just run, I feel really good about my showing. Strong throws, tight spirals; I hit those wide-outs right in the numbers, perfectly on mark. Even I will admit, when I'm on, _I am on._

But then again arm strength isn't really my problem. The physical shit comes easy, like its natural or something.

It's the mental aspect of my game that's my Achilles heel; I react too fast without thinking things through. I make hapless mistakes as a result. It's what cost me the Heisman. It's what lost the Sooners another national championship. I _won't_ let it fuck me out of the first round at the draft in two months.

Bending down, I touch the turf where I've watched Peyton Manning seal his legendary status Sunday after Sunday with the utmost reverence. I dream of a career like his – fuck, all college quarterbacks do. Commanding your troops and leading them to victory? That feeling of invincibility alone is an unparalleled rush that's like a drug. But getting paid ridiculous amounts for playing a game that you love? Shit, I can't think of anything better in life.

"Whitlock! Florida! You're up, let's go!"

The high pitch of the coach's whistle echoes a shrill chirp and my head shoots up from my crouched position on the turf. I can't miss the chance to see the almighty Jasper Whitlock run his drills. I know there's not a chance in hell he's gonna piss away the Combine, not the _Major_. Talk about a god damn field general...

This guy's been fucking my shit up for the past four years, from the second he signed his letter of intent with the Gators. Florida was supposed to be _mine_. It was the best place for me to go make history and build an image, no matter how false it might be. Fake blondes with fake boobs and fake tans; I could've been just as fake in covering up who I really am.

_And just who are you, Riley Biers?_

I'm not sure I know.

One thing is for sure - Whitlock shoulda been the one at OU; that big southern dummy is one-hundred percent Texan. He's a better fit with those rednecks, yet I ended up the Brokeback mother fucker. And while we both have awesome stats, he's got the championship. He was the better leader the day of the Rose Bowl, the superior field boss when the chips were down.

I watch him take the field and the same feelings overtake me as every other time I've seen him handle the ball: awe, resentment, and something else entirely that I refuse to dwell on. He's riveting when he's in charge, and though I've seen his surgeon-like precision countless times before, I can't bring myself to not pay attention.

As always, Whitlock is nothing less than superb and enthralling. The skillful grace in which he moves makes his seven-step drop back look like a dance. His gaze is decisive as he bides his time waiting for the intended receiver to hit his mark. Those steel blue eyes betray nothing to the d-backs, allowing him to dissect the defense with an easy calm that he somehow transfers to his teammates. The guy is poetry in motion. I'm so fixated, I can't even bring myself to stand.

_Fuck. Me._

This is when I start in with the resentment. I feel the growing strain under my cup and know the only way to stop the blood flow south is to focus on the missed opportunities of my life. I can trace the majority of them back to one Jasper Whitlock. The worst part of it is, as bad as I _want _to hate him, I _can't._

No matter what, I can't seem to escape him, especially the last three months. He's just fucking everywhere I am, and there's nothing to be done because of who we are and what we're both trying to achieve.

Back in December, we were two of the five guys flown to New York for the Heisman presentation. Shit was crazy. Camera crews all over, people sticking mics in your face. It was both awesome and fucking exhausting all at the same time. Yet sitting there in the audience, waiting to hear who won, I looked at Whitlock in that charcoal grey Armani pinstripe and sky blue tie and thought how god damned gorgeous he was. I blamed whatever stylist put him in that sin suit.

Neither of us won though – the trophy went to that shutdown corner Edward Cullen from Ohio State. I look forward to going head-to-head with him in the future. Dude is fast as lightening and I'm just itching to find out if he can pick off one of my lasers. I didn't get my gunslinger rep for throwing up ducks.

Truth is, when I finally got to hang with Jasper a little I found out he's cool as hell. Stand-up guy that Whitlock, and it's damn near impossible not to like him. Especially with that southern drawl he's got going on. I had to leave the table when he called the waitress ma'am and winked at her. It was sexy as fuck and I got hard from the honey-tinged twang that fell from his lips. Once I started thinking about those lips, my mind thought of where I wanted to see those lips, hence me getting the fuck out of Dodge.

From that moment on, I couldn't shake my obsession. Is it his fault that I've watched more game film of him than necessary? No. The fact that I spent too much time marveling at his footage than the defense is all on me. If my teammates or coaches ever find out, shit, I have no clue how I'd explain that away.

My knees scream at me to get the hell up and I stand just in time to see Jasper deliver a forty-five yard bomb to that wide receiver Newton from USC. Precision, accuracy, and brilliance delivered like a bolt of thunder hits him dead center in the numbers. I can see the guy wince; pretty sure he just got the breath knocked out of him. Impressive doesn't even begin to cover that pass. My surveying gaze at the scouts confirms their agreement.

Whitlock and the rest of the offense come off the field so the next set of guys can do their thing. I try my best to remain emotionless, like I'm not intensely aware when he's approximately ten feet behind me. Denying myself the pleasure of turning around, my stare remains on the happenings in front of me.

There is also no way in hell I will let on that I notice when he moves just three feet down to my right. Even though I'm hyper aware of his movements in my periphery, I know I mustn't avert my eyes.

_Don't you do it...don't you dare turn your head and stare. Eyes forward, asshole. _

But I can't help myself so I do. That's all the invite he needs to saunter over to where I'm planted. Ever the gentleman, he extends his free hand in a greeting that is neither cliché or disingenuous. Polite honesty in tandem with bronzed skin, sun washed hair, and eyes reflecting Pacific glass.

This obliterating combination leaves me feeling as if the nastiest defensive tackle has just leveled me three levels below the fucking turf.

"Biers," he drawls, our handshake transforming into one of those shoulder bump half hugs, minus the arm wrap. _I really want the arm wrap_. "Been a while since - "

"The fucking championship, I know. Please don't remind me, Whitlock." My tone clips, my posture defensive as I pull back and break my grip.

"Whoa, easy there Hoss. I was gonna say New York. You know when we actually got to hang out and weren't a mess of nerves? Fuck, I don't even count the game; we didn't talk at all."

"Right, sorry," I mutter. Figures. The guy is way too classy to bring up such a sore subject.

"So, you looked solid out there Riley," he says with an easy punch to my shoulder. "Wouldn't be surprised if they flew you out for the draft." His slight smile should unsettle me; he's my biggest competition. Only it doesn't.

"Really? You think so?"

"Hell yeah, man. I saw the scouts' faces. They were impressed, trust me." Taking a long pull from his water bottle, he looks out to the field. My chest starts to pound a little harder, and I know I'm still staring. Jasper's focus drops to his cleats. "So was I." He turns his head just enough to look me in the eye. The minuscule head nod and raised eyebrow fucking wreck me right where I stand.

"Thanks for that. I, uh, I appreciate it a lot."

"No problem. I give credit where it's due, Riley."

Our eyes continue to bore into one another for who the fuck knows how long. I need to say something and fast before this oglefest gets uncomfortable. "You, uh, turned in a pretty, uh, wicked performance yourself," I manage to force out.

_Enough with the "uhs" shit-for-brains._

Our very futures depend on how well we perform, which team drafts us, and ultimately where we spend our careers I ponder the differences between us for a quick moment. Whitlock is as cool as the other side of the pillow, or at least that's how I see him; steady and unflinching. God, what a puss I must look like.

Then I realize that I'd only been shaken from the moment he became my focus. What unsettles me aren't Jasper's skills, it's just him period. All the years we'd been competing my game had never suffered until after I had contact with him. That effect must stop now. It's up to me to find my moxie and, pardon the lame ass joke, but cowboy the fuck up.

Finding my backbone, I summon all the strength I can to chill out and speak like I have somewhat of a college education. "Seriously man, that grenade you threw to Newton? Shit, I'm surprised he stayed on his feet. That bitch had to hurt."

"Thanks, man. That means a lot coming from you." My face must surely betray the skepticism I feel at his words – he's the one with the title. Then I let them sink in and spiral through me. I wonder if maybe, just maybe, Jasper might regard me in a similar manner.

Before I can say anything else, he says, "I won't lie, hittin' him hard was one of the best feelings in the world."

And somehow, that clearly non-literal statement in the most out-of-context interpretation renders me a ridiculous mute. My mouth, now parched from visions of taboo contact, refuses to form any type response. The plastic bottle of relief I hold in my hands is drained, much like my words. A solitary and thunderous gulp reverberates down my throat and I wonder if it's audible to Whitlock.

I beg my brain to scramble, get in the fucking game and not just stand there like a *Wonderlich failure.

"Damn right man. No better rush than pounding your go-to-guy so hard he can't breathe."

Sweet-mother-of-fucking-hell. That shit did not just fall out of my mouth did it? _Why yes, yes it did you tool. And judging from Captain Sports Center, he's as stunned as you are that you'd toss that wobbler out there. _

Japer's expression freezes, although I notice his jaw slacken minutely of course. My face surely is of similar reflection as the ill-chosen words hang in the air. There is no question that he's picking up the innuendo in my affirmation, whether the implication is subconsciously intentional or not. Then Whitlock raises an eyebrow and a single corner of his very off-limits mouth. And I know that there is no scrambling outta this very tense moment.

I begin my dance of awkward in the endzone of embarrassment, backpedaling like my life depends on it. Ill fated grunts of "uhs" and "ums" are the only sounds it seems I can produce. Thank the scouting gods for the signaling whistle for saving my inept ass.

"That's all for today, gentlemen. The rest of the day is yours."

Before I give him so much as a solitary opening, I stumble over a "See ya round, man." Dismissing myself from his very confused stare with a slight towel flick, I jog off field and head to someplace to seek refuge where I can lick my wounds in peace. As if there really is such a place.

...

...

I bolt as if a linebacker packing four-and-a-quarter bills is after my ass for making jokes about his momma. No poise, no grace, only the desire to retreat and regroup. I don't even look back.

Weights. Iron. Muscle fatigue will help me reboot my body's computer and focus. I make my way to the Colts' decked out workout room so I can right myself. I hope like hell I'm the only one with the idea, because all I really want is to be alone. No distractions. Or distraction singular, as there's a lone one that's making me fucking insane at the moment.

I grab a barbell for some chest presses and crank up my iPod. Losing myself in some good old-fashioned blood, sweat, and tears is exactly what I need right now. Exhaustion will bring the calm and clarity to get my head right with fucking ball.

Screaming guitar riffs, plus the pounding percussion thundering in my ears, are peacefully centering to me. Odd as it seems, the more intense the auditory onslaught, the greater the calm is to my system. So many of my teammates swear by yoga and harnessing their chis or some shit, but not me. Personally, balancing my chakras has never been of much use. I'm not even sure what a chakra is, does, or whether or not I even have the fuckers.

Realistically, I shouldn't have any gas in the tank right now. I've been put through the wringer with today's drills. Mentally and physically pushed to the brink, and still, I can't diffuse the adrenaline-endorphin cocktail that's blazing in my system.

Up one and down. Hold. Up two and down. Hold.

As I'm lifting, I concentrate on what lies ahead for me. Not just tomorrow, but the day after that, and the month after that, and the year after that… There's so much uncertainty that rests on what I accomplish in the next twenty-four hours.

Up three and down. Hold. Up four and down. Hold.

I pretty much know I'm going first round. Not that I'm being a cocky bastard, but a Heisman finalist is damn near a shoe-in. Of course, I don't really have a say in where I end up. Hopefully it's to a team with the need of a starting QB. The thought of holding a clipboard until the aging starter either gets hurt or traded isn't really the way I want to begin my career. Fuck, I wanna be _in_ the game. Baptism by fire; that's how you learn.

Up five and down. Hold. Up six and down. Hold.

Then there's the whole picking the agent and negotiating-a-contract bullshit. I've talked with a few of them since the Rose Bowl. Frankly, I'm still shocked that any of 'em still wanna sign me after that fiasco. Bus Cook is super nice, while Drew Rosenhaus intimidates the piss out of me. I keep going back to that Tyler Crowley dude. He's younger than the other guys, but smart and savvy just the same.

_Wonder who Whitlock's talked to… They've all gotta be foaming at the mouth to get a piece of him. Fuck, I know I would…_

_Knock that the fuck off you douche bag! Where is your god damned head?_

Not where it should be, that's for sure. So after I verbally beat my punk ass into submission, I finish my first set of reps. Placing the bar back in its holder, I sit up, grab a towel and some Gatorade to give my muscles a rest before starting the next one.

I can't hear them, but my eyes see what my brain has just been obsessing about walk in the fucking weight room. Only Jasper's not alone, he's with his offensive tackle, Emmett McCarty. Dude is built like a brick shithouse; no question Whitlock is one lucky fucker to have that monster protecting his ass.

Giving them both a slight nod, I lie back and grasp the bar to begin my next rep. Before I can even start, Jasper leans over the bar to get my attention.

"Need a spot man?" I hear him ask after I remove my earbud. "McCarty's gonna warm up on the treadmill for about ten, so I can help you out. If you want me to, I mean."

"No, it's okay," I answer, a little too quickly. Not liking my dismissive tone, I quickly add, "But thanks for the offer."

"Anytime, Riley. Anytime."

There's a moment where I'm caught up in that ice blue stare and I swear to God I feel myself flush. Sweat is beading all over my body and it's not from my workout either. I know it; I'm totally convinced that he knows it, too. No matter how badly I want to, I can't look anywhere else. His eyes simply won't allow me to retreat.

"Hey! J-Dub! Where's that song you loaded on my iPod the other day, dude? You know I can't find shit on this thing." Bless that beast for being technologically inept and unknowingly rescuing me from this precarious exchange.

"I'll be around if you change your mind, Biers." Jasper once again pummels the shit out of me with that half-assed grin-head-nod thing he does and all the air freezes in my lungs. All I can do is mutter a lame as hell thanks while forcing myself to smile in return. Why do I get the feeling it looks more like I'm suffering from constipation?

I finish my next two sets with a false façade of concentration. I don't sit up at all in between because I am a coward and afraid to look anyplace but the ceiling. Anywhere but _him_, and he's exactly everywhere I want to stare.

I move on to chest-flies on the incline bench, first grabbing a set of hand weights – I prefer them to the machines. Something about the old school sensation of steel in my hands feels better. The burn is somehow more raw, intrinsic.

Determined to stay on task, I begin my first set of chest reps grateful that the treadmills are not in my sightline. There's no pussing out and staring at the tiles overhead given my position on the bench. I mentally thank whoever designed the weight room set up for small favors.

Of course, karma is fucking with me yet again. There's not really even time to get comfortable in my false sense of security. Not even halfway into my first group of fifteen, Whitlock and his behemoth in tow move to the very weight bench I've just come from. It just happens that it's directly across from me.

Now I have no choice but to look everywhere I want to. And I really, really want to.

So I give myself permission, agreeing on the condition to shut my eyes if it all gets to be too much. But, I really don't wanna shut my eyes. _Not at all_. It doesn't escape me that I'm bargaining with myself for a privilege that shouldn't matter at all, but it does. That's my own issue to work through, one that I decide to tackle another day. For right now, the plan is to finish my damn workout. Enjoying the scenery in front of me is merely a personal bonus.

I work through my first set with relative ease, physically speaking. I manage to keep count, but I'm also taking in every bit of Whitlock I can. Incredible how his actions of simply spotting the bar while McCarty lifts engages me completely. My awe lies not in the massive amount that the Hulk is benching, but the quiet concentration on Jasper's face as he watches on.

I see his lips move, assuming he's keeping count since my music is in my ears. I become a greedy bastard and want to hear the drawl that's become a staple of many midnight fantasies. I break between sets, pretending to turn the volume up in my ears, when in fact, the opposite is true. The tone of his loquacious southern lilt replaces the sounds of the songs on my iPod. I close my eyes, feigning rest, and just let them wash through me.

Funny how his voice is as calming as my workout music, and the crazy thing is, the two are as about as aurally different as it gets. His voice is placid and tranquil; wrapping around you, moving through you, like the most favorite thing from childhood that brings peace to your soul. Fuzzy warm blankets, homemade ice cream, a mitt that's broken in to perfection, or the first swim of the summer – stuff that might seem trite but somehow just isn't.

I wanna sit here and listen to him talk, not necessarily to me, but anybody, just as long as I can drown myself in that sweet intonation. But I know I shouldn't. I'm here to work and force myself into my next set of flies.

I'm not ready to mute the sounds of him just yet though; it seems wrong to consider such a thing. So, I decide that multitasking is in order. Sure, my arms are lifting the weights and I'm becoming a little winded, just as I should at this point, but over my inhales and exhales, I can hear him spurr McCarty on as he lifts. "That's it, Hoss. Work it son. Focus, push. You got this."

_That_ is the voice of the general. _That_ is the guiding calm of someone in control, a winner. And as badly as I want to let the bitterness consume me, I just can't. Not when it (and he, if I'm being honest with myself) makes me feel so…so… _good_.

And I like this feeling, private as it is, that's enveloping me so much more than I know it should. I don't care though, not enough to turn my thoughts elsewhere. I want to stay in the 'good' and all that it implies for as long as possible.

My mind wanders and takes liberties I've never dared or allowed before, at least not where Jasper is concerned. Visions of non-descript places (because locale is irrelevant) take shape with us in the midst of explicit actions, specific words spoken so vivid that I almost believe it's real.

His mouth...the things he says with it. Fucking hell, the things he does with it. The feelings, the sensations, and the rush…sweet Mary he's on his knees. The me in my mind is in complete awe of him, and just when that me thinks I'll explode, Whitlock looks up at me with that stare, so full of focus and concentration, like he's trying to figure out exactly what will make me lose it completely. Almost like he's trying to solve me.

_A lot like he's looking at you now…_

_Exactly like he's looking at you now._

My brain freezes. The scene in my head comes to an utter screeching halt as I realize that Jasper is staring at me staring at him. I don't even have time to ponder the how long's or the what-the-fuck's; I'm busted as shit. And I'm paralyzed. All my limbs are in total disconnect because I cannot fucking think.

Our eyes are locked, unblinking, trying to get a read on the other. Then, fuck me where I sit, Jasper diverts his eyes down – not to the floor, but to my cock that is clearly the very happy benefactor of the mental porno he was unknowingly starring in.

Or maybe he does_…_Whitlock meets my eyes once again and then _winks_. He fucking winks at me, and that's all the jolt I need to do what I do best: retreat and run for my damn life.

...

...

_He knows! He has to. He winked at you for fuck's sake man._

Fortunately, I don't have far to escape thanks to the sky bridge that connects the stadium to my hotel. Back in the friendly confines of the JW Marriot (OU spares no expense), I berate myself for what feels like numerous hours after escaping the weight room. I somehow manage to shower and change.

Although I have no fucking clue where I'm gonna go, holing myself up here isn't appealing at all. Spending the night chastising my ill-begotten indulgences and subsequent fleeing to my room isn't conducive to anything. I might as well go elsewhere and find a stiff drink (or twenty) and do the job right.

There's a sports bar just downstairs, but that won't do; I prefer not to be recognized. There's been a lot of coverage the last few days with all of us draft hopefuls in town. A person can only answer the same prosaic questions over and over again. Frankly, I'm not in the mood to answer anything other than, "What'll ya have?"

Luckily, the cab driver's a woman who doesn't seem to know who I am. She asks where I'm headed, to which my response is to ask for someplace sparse where I can have a drink in peace. With a head nod and the flip of the meter, she tells me JD's fits the bill. Making our way to the west side of Indy, I wonder how Jasper is spending tonight and how much thought, if any, he'll give to what I've dubbed "Bonergate".

The ride over takes about twenty minutes. It's not filled with idle chit-chat, for which I'm more than grateful. I over tip the driver for her respectful silence. Maybe I'll be fortunate enough to have her on the way back to the hotel.

JD's is everything one would expect in a dive bar – pool tables, dart boards, the typical liquor stocked shelves offering the promise of a good buzz. The obligatory neon signage plasters the walls and illuminates the thin sheen of smoke that hangs in the air. Someone has an affinity for Zepplin because Kashmir is going full throttle on the jukebox when I walk in. This is _exactly_ the type of place I need to be right now.

It's an off night (or at least I think it is) and there aren't a lot of people here fortunately. I'm able to navigate my way easily through the sea of mismatched tables and chairs, heading over to the bar to grab a stool. In no time, the dude behind the counter makes his way down to where I'm sitting.

The barkeep looks friendly enough; fairly tall, sporting a long sandy-colored pony tail. He nods and asks what he can get me. My first thought is to answer a lobotomy, but I decide against being a smartass. Immediately I remember that they won't be serving me that 3.2 bullshit pisswater I have to drink back in Okieland. Decent beer ranks higher than seeing Mom and Dad when I go back home to Seattle.

I freeze for a minute as he checks my ID; not because I'm not of age, I am. I stall because I want to see if he recognizes my name, my face. "Killian's Red it is then. You want a menu?"

With an exhale and a simple "Yeah, please" from me, he hands me back my license to go get my drink.

I peruse the menu and polish off two beers before I decide on Buffalo wings. I contemplate a shot at some point since I'm not driving, and a Jaeger Bomb is a quick ticket to just not giving a fuck. Even if it is only for tonight.

Grabbing some peanuts, I replay shit in my head from this afternoon. What was I even thinking permitting myself to go there with Whitlock in the same fucking room? Its one thing to get all worked up watching him in game film, and entirely another to pop a chub with him twenty fucking feet away.

Spiraling down the path of self-loathing, I hear the bartender ask, "What'll it be?" and realize that he isn't talking to me.

"I'll have a Shiner, please."

I don't even need to turn around. I know that voice anywhere now. My hair stands on end, my chest bows and I wish to all hell I could find a fucking do-over button and go back to this morning.

_What in the name of fuck and Sammy Baugh is he doing here? _

Pony-tail dude asks me if I want another beer; I manage a meager head jerk as my indication of yes. If I could formulate words right now, I'd tell him to bring me a fifth of gin.

"You can take the boy outta Texas, but you can't take Texas outta the boy," Jasper says as I feel him take the stool next to me.

I don't look at him; I can't. I don't speak either, mostly because I have not one fucking clue of what to say.

_Hey man, how's it goin'? Listen, allow me to apologize for the boner I sprouted back in the weight room. See, I was having this hot-as-fuck daydream and sorta got caught up in it. Did I mention that you were sucking my dick like there was no tomorrow?_

Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's not the shit I wanna throw out there. No fucking way.

Bartender man shows up with our beers and my food; at least now I can occupy my mouth properly so I don't have to talk. Maybe I'll get lucky and he'll just leave, although part of me wants to know why he decided to come here, and more importantly, if he's alone.

"Hey, let me know if those wings are any good. I may get some." Jasper casually picks up the menu. He starts rattling on about burgers and pizzas and half a dozen other things. I suppose that's because I have yet to answer him. Shit, I haven't even actually acknowledged his presence yet.

I have no idea how much time passes before I sense Whitlock shift on his stool. I don't have to move at all to know that he's looking right at me. _I can feel it._

"Dude, are you gonna fucking ignore my ass the whole night or are we gonna talk about…shit?"

_Yes. No. Fuck, why you gotta ask compound questions?_

Suddenly, I'm really interested in the state of affairs with these wings, so much so that I'm now double fisting those bad boys. I don't want to talk about shit, specifically _that shit_, and certainly not with him.

"Alrighty then," Jasper says in that silken drawl. "I'll talk. Let me tell you a story about a kid growing up around a bunch of good 'ol boys that figured out that sometimes that's exactly what he wanted: a good 'ol boy. Not that he didn't care for girls, 'cause he liked 'em alright, just not always."

He pauses for a second, I'm guessing to gauge some sort of reaction from me, only there is none.

"Well, it just so happened that this kid had a rocket for an arm and football in his blood. After he got much older, he figured out that as long as he kept winning, people weren't really interested in who tickled his fancy. Not that he went around waving a rainbow flag or anything, he made sure to use discretion and kept things quiet."

I can't help it now; I have to look at him. He cannot be for fucking real.

"And now days, well Florida boosters are all too willing to do _whatever_ keeps me happy. A happy Jasper is a winning Jasper, which means bowl games, and not to bring up a sore subject, but a national championship too."

"Get the fuck outta here," I spit out. "They pay for you to…you to…_you know_."

"Well what do ya know? He speaks," Jasper says with a feigned look of shock on his face. "The answer to your question is no, they don't pay for anything. They're just happy to make arrangements for me is all." A coy expression takes over as he adds, "And not that I really need them to; I don't have trouble taking care of it myself."

"Of course you don't, Whitlock. Guy like you can have his pick I'm sure."

"Is that what _you_ think, Biers?" He questions, the look in his eye challenging and deep-seated with dare.

"I said it didn't I?"

In answering his question with a question, I know I'm a punk and wussing my way out. This line of questioning could get way too personal for me right now. "Bartender, I need another Red over here please," I say, subsequently downing the bottle I'm clutching.

"I'll take another Shiner too, man," Jasper states while shaking his empty glass. "Wait just a sec please." He stops the guy. Leaning toward me, murmurs into my ear, "I think we could both use a shot of a gentleman."

_Oh, I am so screwed._

"We'd also like a shot of Jack. Thank you kind sir." Once the guy is out of earshot, Jasper wastes no time, throwing up twenty questions like a shovel pass. "So tell me Riley, you ever have your pick? Which way did you go, muff or scruff?"

I turn my head away. I've had a girl; one. She was how I _knew._ My meager experience with guys speaks to the very reason I don't know fuckall about what I'm doing here. Sparse memories surface of the trip to Cancun my freshman year with the nameless dude that sucked my cock, and last spring in Cabo with that waiter who blew not only me, but my fucking mind.

I don't tell Jasper any of this. I should know _more_, but once again, he's got the edge where he and I are concerned. Just one time, I'd like to not fall short in comparison to Whitlock. That's not bitterness talking either, just plain honesty.

"Look, I like you Biers. How 'bout we just have some drinks and kick back? Sound good to you?"

I nod in agreement because deep down, I'm ecstatic, albeit nervous as hell, to do just that. _Especially with him. _

We grab the shots placed in front of us. Clinking the glasses together Jasper toasts, "Here's to the taste of a smooth, fine fellow. Ain't nothin' sweeter."

I know he's talking about the whiskey, but his double entendre isn't lost on me for one fucking minute.

"Drink to that," I agree, and know deep down that I mean both too.

We spend the next few hours talking about our childhoods and the crazy paths our lives have taken. The long road from Pee Wee ball to the NFL is successfully navigated by a precious few. Talent, skill, and more often than not, a shitload of luck, are necessary to get there. Neither of us can believe how fortunate we are to have an opportunity like this.

The next few hours pass in whir of more wings, more beer, and of course more shots. Our conversation stays in a safe zone though. We get personal, but only in terms of the game itself. It amazes me how closely our lives mirror one another. _Well, except for certain things_.

Jay (as I've now taken to calling him) calls for our tabs. A pang of sadness pokes at my gut; I'm not really ready to step out of our bubble yet.

Suddenly, there's an awkward quiet looming. I have no idea how to fill it. But the Major does.

"So Riley, did you really mean that shit you said earlier? About me being able to have my pick of anyone and all that."

"Sure I did," my reply is now earnest and sans bitterness thanks to the booze. "I mean come on, like anyone could say no to you." If I were a chick, I'd totally eye roll his ass.

"Good, 'cause I think you should back that up and come to my room."

...

...

We share a cab because, as fate would have it, we're staying at the same hotel. Convenient, right?

The drive back is mostly quiet. The talk is small, in complete juxtaposition with the tension that's about a level forty-seven in density. I have no idea what I'm getting myself into. My buzz is making it easy not to care.

On the elevator there's a moment where I pause and wonder if this is really such a good idea. Jasper pushes the seventeen and for a half-second, I almost reach out and press the twenty-three. _Almost._

The doors part and we both walk calmly through them. Except there's thundering in my chest that's stirring something in me. This feeling intensifies with every step closer we get to Jasper's room. I know this anticipation; I've felt it on the field many times before. My reactions are on a hair-trigger. When this happens, things either go very, very good or very, very bad. The last time Jasper was involved and my emotions were running this high, things went to utter shit in my world. I'm hoping for an entirely different outcome this time.

My eyes fixate on him, watching his every movement as he retrieves the room card from his wallet. Jasper meets my stare as he slides it in the slot.

_Click._

That sound sets off a firestorm in my system and sets play in motion. We're barely inside the door when I move to grab him. I'm fast, but he's faster and so much more smooth. In a blur of movements, almost like something out of the Matrix, he spins and deflects. I end up pinned against the wall in the dimly lit entryway while every single fucking inch of Jasper Whitlock compresses against me.

Here we are once again, veritable reflections of one another; so much the same, but in a lot of ways that count, so very different.

My breath speeds up; his face is barely an inch from mine. I can feel the vibrations that rumble beneath that Polo button-down he's wearing. The musky spice of his cologne assaults my sense of smell. I want to taste the remnants of the Shiner he's been so partial to all night.

No question, the Major is in charge and might as well be playing Reveille because my cock is standing at full attention. _Ready and willing – reporting for duty, Sir._ I know he feels it, he has to because the entire weight of his body melds into mine.

I gulp, horrifically loud. It's a reflexive action given the fact that my mouth is drier than a fucking dust bowl. I stand outside myself for a brief moment, one that I'm certain is about to change absolutely everything for both of us. I want the change to be good.

One of us has to act, and I don't know why he doesn't do something already. He took control the second he put me on the wall.

An eerie, albeit sexy-as-hell calm creeps over his face, which is still oh so fucking close. "We cool? I don't move forward unless you say so." His palms rest just beside my head, bracing him to push away should I give the word.

"Then. Move. Forward. Damn it," I choke out, raspy but authoritative in my own right.

Lightening fast, he's all over me, his hands grasping my face in earnest. His mouth covers mine and suddenly I understand his fondness for Shiner. Or maybe it's really him that tastes so fucking delicious. All I can think is that I want more.

Desperate pulls and glutinous draws govern what is hands down the best fucking kiss of my life. It's clear neither of us are interested in romance or gentility. We're a mish-mash of lips and tongues; I feel his hands fist and tug at my hair. The sensation sends tingling waves that travel the length of my body.

I'm so fucking amped that I grab the first solid piece of Jasper I can and grind into his perfect form. I squeeze and pull the closest hunk of him I can get into my hands. Well lucky me – his ass is all mine.

Somewhere in the midst of entangled limbs and mouths, we break to take in a replenishing breath. My exhale is more of a guttural "mmmnnggg" than anything. Whatever the sound, Jasper must like it; he responds in kind with a powerful thrust and the sexiest groan these ears have ever heard.

And motherfuck, he's as hard as anything I've ever felt and I feel elation knowing it's because of me. Grateful I'm not made of glass, I push into Jasper with all that I am and every ounce of force in me. The pressure feels so god damn good and right, but as with things that are, there's the inevitable desire for more. There has to be more.

Jasper doesn't kiss me again, but instead furrows his cheek against mine. His hands move to my shoulders and squeeze tighter than tight. We fall into a rhythmic pattern of thrusts, gyrations, and rubs against the wall of his room. I don't care that my back is being crushed against it or that my shoulders might have bruises by morning; the only things that matter are the feel of his breath and the sound of his groans.

"Fuck, Riley…you feel me right now?" I drive myself against his erection so he knows that I do. Jasper pulls back and grabs my wrist. "Not like that boy," he drawls placing my hand on his cock. "I _know_ you've got touch."

And touch him I do. I rub and massage him over the rough denim that separates me from the skin-on-skin I know we both want. As if he's reading my mind, he orders, "Now show me those hands son and go to work."

Wasting no time ignoring the Major, my fingers fumble at his button-fly. Licking my palm first, I plunge down past an elastic waistband and seize the rock-hard muscle inside. I grip and squeeze, hard enough to get a "fuck yes" for my effort.

Jasper drops his head back as I begin to pump his shaft. Having no idea what he likes, I rely on my personal knowledge of what gets the job done. Grip up. Twist. Pull down. Twist. Every so often, I run my thumb over the tip. I'm not surprised to find that it's wet.

I pace the speed of my strokes in time with his breathing. The quicker he pants, the faster my hand flies. I lose count of the "fucks" and "goddamns" that come out in growls. The look on his face is hotter than hellfire and I've never been more turned on.

Just when I think he's about to blow, Jay clutches my hand bringing it to a dead stop.

"I'm not ready to come yet."

The question mark floating over my head prompts him to make quick work of my jeans and boxers. He pulls them down far enough that the cool air rushing over my bare skin causes me to shudder. I don't release his cock from my grip, not even when he grabs mine.

"I want you in my mouth first, Biers."

_Fuuuuck meeeee. _

He's squeezing my shaft in long slow pulls, milking the pre-cum from my head. It's torture, but it feels so fucking close to heaven I swear I hear angels. His stare is calm but intense. Taking the clear sticky fluid that coats his fingers, he sucks them into his mouth and says, "And I want some of you."

Jasper drops to his knees, leaving me to grip the wall and hold on for dear life. My eager flesh finds wet and warm as it plunges deep into his mouth. Boy doesn't even gag when I hit the back of his throat.

"Holy shit, Jay," I snarl in pleasure. Him licking and sucking my dick feels a shit ton better than I could've ever imagined. What had only been a half-piped daydream before has come to life in front of me. And it's fucking phenomenal.

I watch his head bob up and down. Instinctively, I grasp his hair. But I'm not sure that's okay. With the other dudes before I didn't care, there was no reason to. This is Jasper Whitlock and that's all the more reason I do.

He must sense the hesitancy of my touch because he releases me long enough to tell me to let go and fuck his mouth already. This isn't merely request, it's a command that I am more than happy to obey.

I thrust my hips in and out, in and out, driving deeper into the torrid slipperiness of pure fucking bliss. I can feel the pressure build, the rush from base to tip, and I know that any second now he'll have exactly what he was asking for only moments ago.

"Holy fuck, man...I'm...ahhh shit...I'm almost there."

"Well then fucking get there, boy," Jasper rumbles.

And that's all it takes. Loud, intelligible cries and moans spew out of my mouth while I empty myself into his. All of the sudden, I'm right fucking thankful that there's a wall behind me; I don't think my legs would hold me up otherwise. I'm damn near spent after that orgasm. It's been so fucking long since someone else has made me come; I'd almost forgotten they could be this intense. Or maybe that's just because it's Whitlock.

I attempt to gather my composure and start to dress myself. "What are you doing?" Jay asks me, although I suspect the question is somewhat rhetorical.

"I'm just gonna - "

"No you can't. Not yet." I'm immediately cut off by his directive. "It's my turn now, and I'm not done with that pretty cock of yours."

I'm still damp from the blowjob to end all blowjobs and I fully understand what Jasper is talking about when he stands up and takes both of our cocks in his hands. Fuck, if I hadn't just blown my load...

But I decide I want to finish what I started. I move one of his hands, replacing it with mine so that the shared grip holds us together. The simultaneous combined pumping of both our dicks is bar none the most erotic thing I've ever seen.

Jasper leans forward and kisses me deep and hard. I know when he's getting close because his tongue stills against mine. All he can manage is to huff into my mouth. I decide it's my turn to give an order of my own. "You better fucking come, Whitlock. I wanna hear you, god damn it."

He obliges with a slew of profanities that might make some coaches blush. Not me though. It gives me a fucking high that I can't even really put into words. Seeing him lose his shit, completely spent, is perhaps the greatest rush of my life thus far. It's also one that I want to feel over and over again.

I tell him so.

Just before we collect ourselves, we sort of just stare at each other in a post-coital stupor. I can tell that we're both having one of those did-that-really-just-happen-or-was-it-a-dream-moments. It takes a minute for it to sink in that it really fucking did.

Realizing that we've made it no further than the foyer, he asks me to stay the night. As badly as I want to, I know I shouldn't. What happens if someone sees me leaving in the morning? I don't think, given the circumstances that surround us, it's the best idea. I don't want to complicate or mess up the good. It's too new right now. So I politely decline.

"Can't you just stay here for a little while? Have a beer or something?" He asks me. The look on his face is so hopeful.

"As bad as I want to Jay, if I don't leave now, odds are I won't ever. I don't have to tell you what might happen if someone saw."

"Is it wrong that part of me doesn't give a fuck?" Jasper questions rhetorically. I know there's nothing wrong with it because there's a part of me that agrees. I think agents and publicists would have a very different opinion.

There's a ton of shit to sort out; not just with this, but with our lives and careers. Both of our futures hang in the balance, at least until the draft is over. Before I walk out his door, I kiss him again, this time more slowly so I can savor it. It's gonna have to last me a while. I smile and tell him that maybe we'll have New York in a month, but no matter what, we'll always have this night.

One thing is for sure: this is just the beginning. For the both of us. And hopefully we can write that playbook together.

* * *

><p>AN: Soooo, this was a little (read a lot) outside of my comfort zone. But the plot bunny wouldn't go away, and after much encouragment, I finished the damn thing. It was part of the Fandom4SAA compliation, of which I am so proud to have been a part of. Cheers to **aylah50 **and **Coldplaywhore **for putting it together. Bravo ladies!

HUGE thank you's to **RoseArcadia, HookaShewz, **and **lolapop **for pre-reading this bad boy. You guys are the best of the best. And because I'm a neurotic headcase, thank you to **jaxon22, Jenny0719 **and **lemonmartinis **for giving this a thumbs up. Epic noms and gropes to you all.

Double spanks to **RoseArcadia **for the purdy banner she made for me. 'Tis a thing of beauty and genius. Pretty much like her.

Also, infinite gratitude and endless thanks (as in I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy) to the one and only **MsKathy**. Firstly, she beta'd this meat party and worked it over (heh) with her red pen of doom like only she can. Not only that, she cracked her whip in my general direction on the daily. Thank you for pushing me to fumble the sausage. I smoosh you with all my might.

I humbly tip my hat to you for reading and sincerely hope you enjoyed. If not, well, maybe you'll still talk to me? I dig you guise more than you know. *smooches all around*


	2. Chapter 2 False Start

**Hello my friends! So, I couldn't get these two boys out of my head after all. Thank you for indulging my perv and love of football. Obviously, Twilight and its characters don't belong to me. I just borrow them from a gal that shares my first name and put them in football pads. Come on into the huddle with me and let's have some fun. **

* * *

><p><strong>CH 2 - False Start<strong>

False Start: Any player moving after they have gotten in their set position before the snap in a way that simulates the start of the play.

**Riley**

Two weeks. Just two short weeks until the draft. Until the next phase of my life begins and I start living the dream. Until I can see Jasper again.

Fuck.

I can't deny that the situation, such that it is, reduces me to counting days like a kid waiting for Santa. It's already been one month and seven days since we were together. Only fourteen more to go before...before I'm not exactly sure what. But the increasing X's and dwindling blank squares on my calendar fuel not only my excitement and anticipation, but also my nerves.

He's all I can think about, especially since we left Indy. I'll admit, I thought a lot about the guy before, but now, shit, it's like totally consuming. What completely sucks is that I know it shouldn't be, not with the draft coming up. My brain tells me I'm focusing on all the wrong things. My heart tells me it's everything right.

No matter how I try not to let it happen, somehow, every train of thought I have ends up back to Jay.

_Signed the contract with Tyler Crowley. My truck needs gas. I'm out of protein powder. Jasper._

_Son of a bitch. _

I mean, it's really not any wonder though. We blow up each other's phones almost daily. Mostly it's texts, and thank fuck we both have unlimited texting. My friends not only notice, but comment quite frequently how my phone has suddenly become a permanent implant on my hand. Nosy fuckers. I refuse to tell them shit.

It's gotten so damn difficult to contain the sheer enthusiasm when I hear the familiar "Boomer Sooner" alert go off. He's not the only one texting me, but Whitlock definitely wins the award for "Most Consistently Filling Up Riley's Text Box". Jasper's heartfelt "get your lazy ass up Biers" morning messages are now a ritual, just like my first Dr. Pepper of the day. Things just aren't worth a shit without either one of them.

I wish we could talk more, though. We try as often as we can, but given our roommate situations, that's kinda tough. We both live in the athletic dorms at school, and share a room with a teammate. I bunk with one of our running backs, Ben Cheney. Nice guy with good grades. He's not going pro though, so all of the pre-draft jitters are pretty lost on him. The jitters that come from Jasper are_ totall_y lost on him.

Whitlock got stuck with their kicker, and did I ever give him shit for that. Not that I have anything against special teams, but hell, at least it could've been someone from the offense. I remember asking who he pissed off to get that assignment. Jay said, "Fuck you," and that I should be glad it wasn't the tight end, especially since the guy actually had one.

Fucker.

He puts up with my shit with the best of 'em, and then turns around and gives it right back to me. It drives me crazy, but in all the best ways possible.

The fact that we both live with guys on our respective teams makes it difficult to talk without raising suspicion. Neither one of us wants to deal with prying questions or unwelcome speculation about why we're talking in the first place. After all, we're supposed to be sworn enemies or some bullshit. So we bide our time, scheduling phone "dates" (which sounds so fucking chick-like, but I digress) when the opportunity presents itself.

I look at my watch for about the six hundred and forty-eighth time to see how much closer it is to seven o'clock. Five fucking minutes and Cheney is still pussy-footing around. Dude just needs to be fucking gone already. He's got date night with his girlfriend and I'd prefer that the guy not be here when Whitlock calls.

"Sure you don't want to go, Riley? Angela's got this friend that really wants to meet you. Blond and stacked man; I think her name is Lauren."

I shake my head and roll my eyes in what's become an all too familiar response to countless futile set-ups. Sure, in the past I've obliged here and there to keep up appearances. Luckily, the 'I'm-a-serious-athlete-with-no-time-for-relationships' thing is a reliable excuse to fall back on.

"I'll pass, Ben, but thanks for the offer. I'm just not interested. Not with everything coming up, know what I mean?"

"Bro, nobody is asking you to marry the girl," Ben chastises me, the slightly exasperated tone ever present in his voice.

_Well thank fuck for that _I think to myself.

"Yeah, I know, but come on, sometimes you can't tell about these girls. What if she's looking for a meal ticket and a way outta the sticks? Not a chance I wanna take right now."

"True. I wish I knew her so I could tell you different, but I don't." He grabs his keys and wallet to head out. "Otherwise, I'd be draggin' your not-yet-drafted ass along anyway."

"Whatever, Cheney, whatthefuckever. You crazy kids have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do," I call after him as the door closes. I immediately laugh at my statement, because fuck if it isn't the truth. I wouldn't do anything with a pair of tits and a pussy.

Give me Jasper Whitlock's cock and ass and I'm totally there.

As if the boy knows I'm thinking about him, my phone rings. Relief plows through me because I was starting to get a little nervous that he wasn't going to call.

"S'about time jackass," I answer, hoping the excitement isn't too thick in my voice. I haven't heard that twang in eleven days and the withdrawals are about to do me in. "I was just about to be an unwilling participant of a very uncomfortable and disappointing set up."

"Is that right?" He chuckles, and even though it's a question, I know it isn't really. He knows the game. "Poor girl owes me and doesn't even know it."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?" I ask, knowing the answer but needing to hear Jay speak the words anyway.

"For her not getting her ass whipped that's why. I don't share. _Ever._" My heart spikes at that statement and my breath gets helplessly stuck in my throat.

It takes me a few seconds to unrattle myself and say something perfunctory. "And here I thought you were a true Southern gentleman, Whitlock."

"I am; to the bone, son. My momma taught me not to ever raise my hand to a woman. She didn't say anything about having another woman do it for me though." He laughs in earnest, and _fuck_ how that sound goes all over me. I can't help but do the same, laughing with him. The idea of Jasper Whitlock getting possessive over me makes more than a little giddy. Not to mention, it's a total fucking turn on.

"Didn't know you were so territorial, Jay. You're not going to lift your leg and piss on me next time we're together are you?"

Things go quiet for a second. It's just long enough that I wonder if the call dropped. Before I can say his name, I hear a long exhale and a whispered "fuck," and I know he's still there.

"Hell yes I'm territorial." His voice is low and serious and the way it vibrates in my ear goes straight to my hardening dick. "And I swear, I'll be marking you with an altogether different bodily fluid the next time we're together."

_Holy. Shit._

"Promise?" I manage to choke out, and I swear the utterance that leaves my throat sounds like a twelve-year-old boy hitting puberty.

"You bet your sweet ass it is. And trust me, _it is sweet_."

Sweet fucking cock and eggs.

As badly as I want this conversation to continue down the road that leads to me whacking off and Jasper talking dirty in my ear (which happened three days after we hooked up, and fuck was it awesome), I know we have more important shit to discuss. Like the how and where of him marking my ass without the league, and more importantly, the national media finding out.

I swallow hard and shake my head so I can focus. The league is flying us both into New York for the draft because all projections indicate that we'll both end up taken in the first round. Most mock drafts predict us somewhere in the top ten. Thing is, Whitlock and I want to spend time together. Alone. No cameras, no reporters, and no fucking talk about our careers. Just us.

That will be no easy feat given the circus frenzy that is the NFL draft.

"So, have they made your flight arrangements yet?" I ask. I've been playing phone tag with the lady making my travel plans for the last few days. Jasper and I have to be on the same page before I can solidify my own.

"Yeah, I talked with the gal yesterday. Shit, I forget her name...Jessica Stanley is it?"

"That's her."

"She is one more giggly bitch, isn't she? I mean she's nice and all, but damn she laughs at fucking everything."

"I wouldn't know dude; haven't actually talked to her yet. Maybe she's just fallen victim to your good 'ol boy charm, _hillbilly_." I can't resist the opportunity to razz him a little. It's way too much fun to give him shit; it's not like I get the chance very often.

"Screw you, Biers," Jasper says, trying to bury the chuckle underneath his breath. "Anyway, I'm flying in early on Wednesday. I figure Friday is a lost cause with all the day-before bullshit we've gotta do."

"Right," I agree. "It's going to be fucking insane with all the reporters." I then wonder aloud what reason he gave for flying in early.

"I told her I wanted a little time with my family before all the chaos. She bought it; I explained that I have family up there and that's why I don't need the hotel room until Friday."

"Good cover. Think I'll tell her I want to hang with the fam too, but that I'll crash at their hotel. That way she can make my hotel reservation for Friday as well."

"Solid. Oh, and I'm flying into JFK. I think you should fly into La Guardia, just to be safe."

Just like always, I know he's right. As badly as I want to have one of those cheesy airport reunions where I see him stroll out of the gate looking finer than pure cane sugar, I understand that's just not possible. It would only add blood to the tank of shark-infested waters. And these sharks are fucking predatory and starving for anything to write or go on air about. It's simply the nature of the beast; Jasper and I refuse to be media fodder.

With all the press around at the draft, there's no way that we'll be able to be around each other in public for any length of time. The facade of us being nothing more than casual acquaintances is going to have to be pretty damn convincing to everyone else. I have no idea how we'll be able to keep the _feeling_ and the _knowing _from outwardly flashing like a neon sign and giving everything away.

I get the sinking feeling the toughest person to fool will be myself. We haven't discussed what _this is_ or what _we are_. Whatever it is that's happening between us is still so new I think both of us are shying away from giving it a label. I know I have to work really hard at not getting my hopes up. That, in and of itself, is proving to be one of the most difficult things I've ever faced. I'm in so deep already.

Now that the flight-play is scripted, its time to discuss the detail that makes my stomach tighten with anticipation. I have no idea where we'll stay; all I know is that I get two nights with Jasper all to myself. That thought thrills me to oblivion, but at the very same time scares the fucking shit out of me. Not just because I really have no clue what I'm doing, either both physically and emotionally. It's because I'm fairly certain that it's going to gut me completely to leave him and pretend like it didn't happen once I step into the public eye.

"You still there, B?" he asks. "Did you hear what I said about La Guardia?"

I realize that I was so lost in my own head that I haven't answered him yet. "Oh, yeah. Sorry man. You're totally right. I'll make sure that's where I go." Taking a measured breath and steadying my voice, I ask the question that's been on the forefront of my mind all damn day. "So where am I headed once I land, Jay?"

"One of the alums has a penthouse on Central Park West. Cool guy; he's some hotshot real estate developer. Anyway, I asked him as a favor and he said yes."

"Really? Did you tell him-?" I question, but Jasper stops me short.

"No, I didn't. The less info he has the better. I just asked if I could borrow his place for a day or two away from the hype."

"Well that just proves my theory that 'no' is a word you're not familiar with." I laugh because I'm guessing the boy can count on one hand the number of times he's actually heard it. I'm proof positive that Jasper Whitlock is damn near impossible to resist.

"Damn straight, son." His voice exudes confidence, but without an off-putting air of superiority. God, I love that and envy it all at the same time. "I've earned it, considering what I accomplished for the school, you know?"

"Yeah." I can't say anything else because I know he's referring to the National Championship that I fucked up. I also know he doesn't mean anything by it; that's just the truth of the matter. Still, I can't deny the sting isn't entirely gone.

"Oh, fuck, Riley. Shit man, I'm sorry. I didn't to make you feel bad or anything."

I can hear the immediate shift in his voice; the regret is palpable and that just gives me more reason to fall for him. I can tell how it bothers him that his finest hours were my worst, and that even though it was no fault of his own, he feels guilty about it somehow. That floors me because truthfully, as a rival competitor, he shouldn't give two shits.

"No, no...I know you didn't. No worries." I don't want to discuss it any further, so I quickly change the subject. "So, you'll shoot me the address then?"

"Oh yeah, I'll text it as soon as we hang up."

The conversation takes a much needed directional change, and I'm thankful for the levity. Things went from sexually tense to regretfully awkward too fast; so not the way I want to spend the precious little time I have on the phone with Jasper. Well, maybe the sexually tense part is okay. Fuck, it's more than okay - it's hot as hell.

Besides, the past is the past and can't be changed. I wanna talk about things that matter. Like the future. The unbelievable changes my life will undergo after the draft makes my head spin. Basically, I'm going from a monetarily-challenged college athlete that's not allowed to work because it violates NCAA regulations, to a professional football player and a multi-millionaire before the month is out.

We talk about where we want to play, even though it doesn't really matter. That part of it isn't up to us. Our respective agents tell us not to worry; they will handle all the negotiations. But we share the same apprehension in letting someone else work out the details of our livelihood. In fact, we have a lot of similar opinions on this whole crazy process, and Jasper and I find comfort in that. It's nice to have someone to confide in that's going through all of the same stresses and pressures.

Whitlock and I mull over hundreds of different scenarios that involve last-minute trades from over zealous GM's. One more thing is that we both want to play. Now. Neither of us wants the backup-heir-apparent gig.

Where the time goes is a mystery, but before long we realize it's almost midnight. We've been talking for almost five hours now. I wonder if he needed this as desperately as I did. Part of me thinks he must've given how difficult it is for either of us to end the call. Who knows if we'll get the chance to do this again before New York.

"Hey," I shout with an added measure of desperation. "Do you want me to bring anything, uh...special?" I have to ask because fuck all if I know.

"Just yourself, B. That's the only thing I need."

I simultaneously curse and bless the free fall of my stomach because his words leave me reeling. Fourteen days, I repeat silently. Fourteen fucking days and I will truly have it all.

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><p><strong>AN: **You guise...can I just tell you how much I dig y'all? It made me crazy happy that so many of you wanted more of these boys. I'm having a shit ton of fun with them and sincerely hope you enjoy what happens down the road.

I need to give serious loving to the kickass chicks that preread for me. **RoseArcadia**, **lola-pops**, **Jenny0719**, **kbacon74** and **lemonmartinis**. I know, I'm a spazzy h00r and that's a lot of hand-holders, but that's just me. These ladies are awesome and keep me from going completely off the grid.

Endless gratitude and smooshes to **MsKathy** for working her beta magic and making this all pretty and clean. I would be a total train wreck without her expertise and guidance. Not only do I fear her red pen of doom, I respect and appreciate the hell out of it.

Huge thanks to the gal's over at Twi-Slash Unveiled and **conversedcullen **for the UHMAZING review she did for my purty football boys. I am ridiculously honored and humbled to have been featured over there. http:/twislash(dot)blogspot(dot)com/2011/08/tuesdays-best-8-16-2011(dot)html?zx=fb49fc89cd2bb0b0

And of course, much love and gropes to all of you. Thank you for indulging me and letting me fly my football geek flag. Burgers, booze and dogs on me!

I'll see you guys in New York City. Bring your pom poms. *spirit fingers*


	3. Chapter 3 Delay of Game

***Blows whistle* Ohai guys. How about we gather 'round the chalkboard and talk some pigskin? Sort of. Hee. As always, Twilight and all the wonderful characters don't belong to me, so no copyright infringement is intended. I'm merely having some fun and wanted Jasper and Riley to get handsy with each other. See you down below in the locker room. Ready! Break!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3 Delay of Game<strong>

Delay of Game - A penalty called for either letting the play clock expire before snapping the ball, having too many players on the field, or calling a time out after having already used all that are alotted by rule.

**Riley**

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain here. I'm turning on the fasten seatbelt sign as we begin our descent into New York City. We'll be landing in about twenty minutes. Flight crew, please prepare the cabin for landing. To our passengers, we thank you for choosing to fly with Virgin Air."

The dinging sound coupled with the voice echoing throughout the plane startles me from my thoughts. Well, fantasies is more like it. I've spent the last four hours lost in some sort of crazy erotic nervous haze.

Not even the beer or Bloody Mary I had earlier helped take off the edge. I'm starting to wish I'd hit one of the team doctors up for some pain meds. A Vicodin would have definitely calmed my ass down.

When I got out of bed this morning, I was convinced the hours would dissipate like molecules of evaporating water: dangerously slow to the naked eye. However, this logic proves to be so incredibly far off the mark, even for me. It seems like I barely blink and we're already making landing preparations.

My entire flight consists of me running through every scene imaginable of what might happen when I see Jasper. I mean, I'm an offensive-minded kind of guy; its second nature to me. In fact, Coach Stoops insists that our offensive coordinator script the first twenty plays of every game. It's my job to trust his judgments in play-calling and fight my need to change shit because of what I_ think_ I see. I'll leave the analogy of the end goal being to score and put points on the board, even though it's funny in an obvious and corny kind of way.

True to fucking form, I'm over-analyzing everything and call audibles at every turn. What if he this, or what if I that? I panic, worry consuming me that I'll turn the whole situation over and fuck it all up. This is the crippling fear that keeps me from taking a trip to the bathroom and inducting myself into the Mile High Club.

Shit, what if I'm so damn scatter-shot I can't even get hard once I get there? Then he'll see me for the colossal disappointment I am. He'll think what a fucking waste this turned out to be, and it will bury me to know that it was all my fault.

_Well why don't you play me a fucking symphony with your pitiful little violin? Quit your whiney-boy worrying and get your head straight. Stop freaking yourself out and second-guessing. Let the game come to you. Besides, this is Jasper..._

It's the last part of my mental rally that steadies me. _It is Jasper_. He's not some nasty defensive lineman trying to thwart my drive to the end zone. Fuck, he's offense like me, with the same goal in mind. We want the same thing; he's on my side.

After the plane lands, I turn my phone on while I wait for the other passengers to get their luggage and deplane. I'm not a fan of all the impatient pushing and shoving that goes on. I'm so nervous I'm liable to get pissed off and jump someone's ass, and that is one thing I sure as hell don't need.

I see that Jasper's sent a couple of texts already. One telling me he's landed and the other a short time later that he's at the condo. I reply that I'm on the ground and will be en route shortly. I feel my chest all but explode with excitement and trepid anticipation when I hit send.

After I grab my bag, I make my way off the plane, but not before one of the stewardesses tells me to "please fly again soon". Her eyes give me the once over as she licks her plum painted lips. The look she gives me suggests that she wouldn't mind making my skies a little friendlier. Poor thing. I give a polite nod and thanks as there's no need to sucker punch this girl's self-esteem. I make my escape before she can do something pointless, like give me her number.

Miraculously, I somehow manage to navigate my way through the craziness of La Guardia and grab a taxi. The driver barely looks a me when I get in the cab, and for that I'm grateful. I really don't want to ascertain whether or not he recognizes me. He's nice enough when he asks for the address, or as nice as a cabbie from New York can be, I suppose.

I know that the condo is a little less than ten miles from the airport, and that's because I've pulled the map up about three thousand times over the last two weeks. Of course the building isn't going to up and move, but the ritual of looking at the map on my phone not only calms me, but gives me something to do when I get twitchy.

My mind can't help but dissect the game film of the last time I saw Jasper. His hotel room. His hands. My hands. Fuck...his mouth. Me fucking his mouth.

Just. _Fuck_.

I remember that night with perfect clarity. I remember how badly Jasper wanted me to stay and how I wanted exactly the same thing. But the timing was all wrong. The blitz of the morning was too risky; we were rushed, and the consequences too costly if we got caught.

It's different now though. He and I are set; things are in motion, but there's time. Time to get the right reads, time to make sure our marks are hit. Time to ensure completion.

Because I swear on my love of the game, I think Jasper Whitlock completes me.

_Well, how rich. That'll be enough out of you Jerry Mc-fucking-Guire._

The twenty minute cab ride is over before I realize it. My first time in the Big Apple and I'm totally oblivious to the ornate buildings that pass through my window. In fact, the only structure I'm remotely interested in is One Hundred Forty-Five, Central Park West. And the only interest in that particular address rests solely in who is waiting for me there right now.

**Pulling up in front of the building**. I text, letting him know that I'm finally here.

**On my way down.**

And not ten seconds later: **Interpret as you will.**

I'd say he's a fucking tease, but I know better. That very fact makes me shiver as I remember just how much of one he's not. So does my swelling cock for that matter, thus proving the theory of muscle memory to be a certifiable fact.

Cursing the thick fabric of my jeans (although I'm happy as shit it's hiding my boner), I shift in the backseat and grab my wallet so I can pay the driver. When he turns to take my money, he pauses for a second before telling me in his thick 'new yawk' accent that I look familiar. I tell him I get that a lot.

Not giving the guy time to ask any questions, I make a hasty exit. Luggage in hand, I turn back to tell him thanks and to have a nice day. I'm not completely without manners...

I prepare myself to walk through the glass doors of the towering building before me. My eyes scale the full height of the twenty-seven floor structure and I take a much needed breath. This is it. This is what I've been waiting for since I walked out of Jasper's hotel room two months ago.

_So why won't my feet fucking move?_

Then, just like I've imagined more times than I can count, the glass door swings open; Jay is suddenly there all bright smiles and swagger. The look on his face is one of sheer excitement and anticipation, an expression that matches my own I'm quite sure.

My body is telling me to tackle the man right where he stands, a reaction that I have to beat the hell down. I can feel pure adrenaline scatter through my system, bubbling faster with every step Jasper takes toward me. Fuck, I wanna jump out of my damn skin.

"Hey you," he says, the calm in his voice the polar opposite of the intensity of his eyes. I'm completely thrown and like _what the fuck_ when he offers me his hand in greeting. As if a handshake will fucking suffice for the first touch in the longest two months of my life.

But it has to and that's all there is to it. The squeeze of my hand in Jasper's most definitely tells me this contact _is not_ all there is, but merely a minuscule preview of what is ahead. I return his grip, letting him know that I understand.

"Hey yourself." My reply is steady and I'm instantly proud of myself for keeping my shit in check. "What's up?" It's an idle question I know, but small talk in this case is better than intense silence. I'm trying to be all nonchalant and cool, praying I'm not failing miserably.

We turn to walk inside and just before we enter, Jay leans his head over and whispers so only I can hear, "Me in about thirty seconds, B."

_Mother fuckin' gator balls. _

Once again, the General renders me a damn mute, the gears in my brain stuttering to an utter halt. How he manages to do that drives me to the edges of insanity and back. I can't even bring myself to hate it, not even a little, because it feels so...so fucking good.

We walk through the lobby, not touching, but closer than we probably should be. My body is thrumming with the energy that passes between us. Shit, it's what's keeping me moving when my knees feel like buckling. Even more amazing is the apparent ease at which Jasper is handling this whole situation. The almost flippant way he tells the doorman who I am (obviously a cousin of some sort), and that I'll be staying with him, simply floors me.

I barely have time to decipher the doorman's expression as the elevator doors slide to a close. I sense Jasper press the button in my periphery, but I am in no way prepared for what happens next. The exact second we start to ascend, my luggage is stripped from me; insistent hands push my body back until I'm pinned between the back of the elevator and Jasper's body.

It's the second time I've been in this position and I love it every bit, if not a fuck load more, than I did last time. I feel Jasper's cock press against my own, every line of his body in perfect perpendicularity with mine. Not wasting a single second, he seizes my mouth, stealing the very breath from my lungs. My very being, in its entirety, has never been so happy to surrender.

I can tell in the frenzied urgency of his kiss that Jasper's every bit as anxious and expectant as I am. Our lips entangle in blatant need, tongues pulsating in unabashed desperation. Arms and hands flail and grapple, while the chorus of moans and hums testify to the _it feels like forever since we've done this _of the moment. Fuck me if it isn't as perfect as I'd hoped it would be; probably more, since it's actually happening.

I have no idea what floor we're going to, but I'm thankful it's high enough that we manage to extricate ourselves from one another. It's not done without effort though, on both of our parts. In fact, the lone reason I'm able to remove myself from his grasp at all is that we'll be behind closed doors in about half a minute.

"I've been waiting two fucking months for that," he murmurs against my lips. The words are somewhat choppy as he's trying to re-oxygenate himself, which makes me grin like a goofy bastard. He's just as wound up as I am. I lick his lower lip, because I need one more taste before I have to separate myself completely.

The elevator slows, finally coming to a stop. We part, resuming our positions in staged preparation just in time for the doors to open. It's crazy how we manage the transition from two lust-filled guys about to devour each other to a couple of chill dudes walking off the elevator. We would have any passerby fooled with our surface demeanor; it would shock anyone to know the boiling need going on underneath.

The facade instantaneously disappears the second we walk through the front door though. Jasper doesn't have the chance to take my bags from me as I dump them on the floor. He grabs my hand and leads me down the long and narrow layout of the condo.

"Living room, kitchen, dining room, study, bathroom..." he calls out, gesturing blindly with his free hand. I don't even really have time to register my surroundings because we're walking too fast. Not that I really care. I have a pretty good idea I know where we're headed.

"Bedroom," I finish for him, my suspicions happily confirmed. "Nice tour."

"Yeah well, two months is a long time to go without you, and in case you couldn't tell, I'm having a really tough time keeping my hands to myself. Besides, I figured we've had enough of walls and entry ways. I think it's time we moved on to furniture. Agreed?"

"Absolutely."

Jasper is still holding my hand and I don't waste a single tick of the play clock. I pull him to me, because it's a crime somehow that we're still _talking_ and not fucking _doing_. "Two months is a fucking eternity, and I think the bed should be scared as hell," I tell him just before press my lips to his.

My words are bold, but my actions are slow with careful measure. I want to savor every second of this. I want time to all but stand still in an effort to make this last as long as it possibly can. There's no need to rush and nowhere we have to be.

This exchange is so radically different than the ones before. Gone is the hurried frenzy and panicky desperation of those moments. Slow and methodical discovery are now present in what's before us. And the priceless gift of time that we both refuse to waste.

I let my hands travel the lithe and muscular planes of his body. My touches are purposeful so that I can memorize every ripple of muscle and every angle of bone. I can feel the power of his strength, yet he is completely pliable and yielding in my arms. The duality is unlike anything I've ever felt.

And I need more. More him, more touch...just_ more_.

Grabbing the hem of his shirt, I slide it up, my palms grazing his sides. His breath stutters and his torso shivers. Hearing him chuckle softly, I realize Jay is a little ticklish. That interesting factoid will be filed away and used at a later moment.

I don't want to stop kissing him, but I take the briefest pause to ease his shirt over his head. My lips immediately seek his as I toss it somewhere behind me on the floor. I'm so focused on how his skin feels, how smooth and _good_, it almost doesn't register when he starts unbuttoning my shirt.

With surgeon-like skill, it's being peeled away from my body and all but forgotten, almost as if I hadn't been wearing one in the first place. Melded together, bare-chested in an entanglement of arms, it's clear that there is only one thing on both of our minds...

_More._

Belts unfasten, buttons pop loose, and pants pool to the ground. How we manage to step out of our clothes and take our shoes off without falling is a sheer testament to our balance and coordination. Through every effort to rid ourselves of barriers, our lips refuse to relinquish contact of any kind. Mouths, jaws, necks, as long as there is skin.

Jay's hands traverse down my back and slip under the elastic waistband of my underwear. They find and settle on the curvature of my ass. The kneading and squeezing of those legendary hands is so amazing, I suddenly develop a jealousy for every football they've ever grasped.

"Holy shit," I gasp when I move to mimic his actions and discover that Whitlock is fucking commando. "You're not wearing any-"

"I was a fucking Boy Scout, Biers. I'm always prepared."

I guide Jasper back toward the bed that we're probably going to wreck. He stops suddenly, and mutters "ow my knee" against my neck. We both look down and see an outer wooden lip around the edge of the bed frame, a bench of sorts, that neither one of us noticed before.

"Guess we should pay better attention to our surroundings, huh?" I laugh because how in the name of fuck and Broadway Joe did I miss that the boy is naked?

"Adapt and overcome, that's what we do, Riley," he says, successfully navigating the outskirt and climbing onto the bed.

"Damn straight." I decide it's high time I overcame the last stitch of clothing on my body and rid myself of the boxer briefs that cover my very thankful hard on. It's only been trying to see daylight since I pulled up to the fucking building.

Standing there totally free of cotton or denim, I realize that this is the bravest I've ever been. It's also the most vulnerable. I've never been like this with another man. Ever. I pause a beat, but not out of fear. It's preparation. I wanna make sure I do this right.

"Come here," Jasper whispers, my eyes locking on his. The smile on his face calms me and I crawl up the length of his body until I'm lying flush on top him.

I know he can handle my full weight, but I still bear most of it on my forearms beside his shoulders. Dipping my head down, I kiss him because I need it to steady me. My control is on the verge of snapping, and his mouth gives me the grounding I need to not break apart at the seams.

My hips roll on instinct, grinding against his. He presses me closer, so close that it's hard to decipher where I end and he begins. The thrusts start out easy, but it feels so damn good and the only thing that will make it better is faster, harder.

_More._

It's more, but somehow it's still not enough.

The push and the pull of our bodies in unison with the sounds of our breathy moans is almost too much for me to bear. The fucking fantastic way his cock feels rubbing against mine, both of which are sandwiched between our bodies, is going to do me the fuck in if I don't slow this down. I don't want to give up the amazing sensation, but I know that I'm about ten seconds away from blowing my load on Jay's stomach.

That simply will not do.

Summoning the strength and fortitude of my entire offensive line, I propel myself back onto my knees. My chest is heaving, tiny beads of sweat forming where Jasper and I've been fused together. I must have this moment to get composure.

"What's wrong? Too much? Too fast?" The rapid fire questions and the look of concern on his face tell me he thinks he's pushing me; that he's done something wrong. He has no idea how much he's doing _right,_ and that it's the very reason why I gotta take a minute.

"No, no...nothing wrong." I run my hands nervously through my hair while I try and gather the right words. I don't want him thinking we need to stop. "I just...I'm too close to coming. Not ready yet."

"It's okay man, I get it. Just as long as we're all good."

I nod, using the break to look at Jasper, I mean _really look at him_. I've imagined what's under his uniform and pads more times than I can count. The truth is, even in my most vividly graphic fantasies, the image of Jasper Whitlock naked and hard in front of me holds no comparison to the real deal.

It's a thousand times better and more perfect than in the very best wet dream. I feel like I could look at him just like this for the rest of my life and the sight would never get old. My brain snaps the picture and I file it away for when we're apart. This is a moment I'll want to hold onto.

"Hey, something on your mind, B?"

"I was just thinking how..." I struggle to find the right word for what I want to say. _Beautiful?_ I mean he is, but that doesn't sound right. _Attractive?_ Fuck, that's not right either. That word in no way does him justice.

"Yeah?" he asks, trying to coax it out of me.

"Flawless," I blurt out, the right one finally hitting me. "I was just thinking how flawless you are."

"Ya think so?" He grins, those dimples more pronounced than I've ever seen them. "I could say the very same thing about you."

With that simple declaration, I'm inclined to try something I've never been daring enough to before. Not that I haven't wanted to, but the fear of whether or not I'd be any good always stopped me. And fundamentally as a person, I don't do anything unless I'm good at it.

I scoot back just a little farther, never taking my eyes off Jasper's face. I can see the question of _where do you think you're going _funneling through his expression. I give him all the answer he needs when I bend down and take his cock in my hand.

Teasing him, I grip the shaft, but run my thumb over and around the swollen head. He smiles again, a softly whispered "damn," falling from his lips. He settles back into himself and I can tell he thinks he's in for another hand job.

He thinks.

I know better.

Two pumps of his cock and a quick lick of my lips later, and I'm taking every last inch of the Major's erection that I can in my mouth. I almost make it to the base, but feel the tip hit the back of my throat. Thank god my gag reflex isn't sensitive.

He jerks underneath me, but only because I've caught him off guard. That, and it must feel pretty good; he blurts out a clipped "jesus fuck," followed by a whole mess of unintelligible gibberish. Every now and again I can sort of make out him saying my name.

I bob my head up and down slowly, the grip of my hand working in tandem with the sucks and licks of my mouth and tongue. I've never had a cock in my mouth before and fuck all if I know what Jay likes, but I know what drove me to the edge when he did this to me.

Urging his hips to move, I feel it's only fair to return the favor: one good mouth fuck deserves another after all. I don't know that I'll be any better at giving than receiving, but for Jasper, I'm sure as hell gonna try. His fingers weave into my hair and the thrill of him pushing my head, controlling the pace, makes me try that much harder.

Fuck, I want him spilling in my mouth and yelling my name until he forgets his own.

His breathing is fast, almost at full-on pant, and he's not so much speaking in words as in grunt-like tongues. It surprises the shit out of me when he stills his hips and stops my head from moving.

"Stop for a second." The words sputter out as he tries to get control of his breath. "I'm...I'm not ready yet either. I wanna...wanna at the s-same time." It takes me a second to register what it is he wants, exactly.

_Holyfuckyesplease. _

"Swing your legs around and straddle me." I move my body, obeying his instruction. I'm so out of my element here and therefore rely on him to guide me. "Further back," he tells me; Jasper reaches around, grabbing my quads and pulling me until I'm where he wants.

"Perfect. Now bend forward."

I don't need anything more beyond that.

I take his cock back in my mouth at the very same time as..._Holy fuck, I did _not_ know my dick would bend that way_.

We're both sucking and stroking and god damn am I finding it hard to concentrate on him when what he's doing to me feels so fan-fucking-tastic. It's every bit as wet and warm as I remember; maybe even more because I'm on a bed and not against a fucking wall this time.

It quickly becomes a game of who can make the other breathe faster, groan louder, and swear more incoherently. Jasper thinks he's got me when he starts fondling and licking my balls. I'm sure I'm ahead when I use my teeth lightly grazing his shaft.

Then just like always, the man finds a way to school my ass. Only this time, I don't mind. Not even a little.

"Do you trust me?" he asks, his voice all kinds of serious.

"You know I do."

"Then just relax."

So I do.

I'm still pumping his cock when I register something that feels a lot like a wet finger trace the crack of my ass. It circles the flesh of the hole that – up until this moment – has been exit only, teasing but not pushing in. At first it's strange, the sensation unlike anything I've ever experienced. Just like with everything else that concerns Jasper, I want more.

I rock myself back into his finger so that it penetrates and thrust into the hand that's working my dick three ways from Sunday. It's so fucking amazing I'm unable to focus on the blow job I'm supposed to giving him. Burying my face in his hipbone, I somehow manage to keep jacking him off, nibbling and licking one half of his delicious V.

But fuck am I ever close. So close that I feel like I don't even have time to warn Jay before my orgasm totally overtakes me. It renders me incapable of anything more than strangled sounds that may or may not sound a lot like sobs. I don't give a shit, because it's by far the most incredible and intense moment of my twenty-two years of life.

As bad as I want to collapse, I know I can't. Jasper's not finished and I owe him and then some for what he's just given me. Even though I've never entertained the idea of letting a guy come in my mouth, I am now. Certainly, there's a first time for everything; lately, the most important firsts have been with Jay.

I lick my way across the line of his pelvis and straight up his shaft before taking him full into my mouth. I relax my throat muscles so that I can in fact touch lips to base this time. Awarding me a grunt-laced "fuck yes," Jay moves his hands to grasp my hips. He grips and crushes the flesh as he thrusts; the more erratic his movements, the faster and harder I suck and stroke.

With a fierce and intemperate jerk, my mouth fills with everything Jasper. I don't dwell on the taste or the texture, my focus on wasting nothing and the repeating shouts of my name. I make sure he's empty and on the downside of his release before I flip over to my back.

Things grow quiet. I'm trying to process and regroup, my mind still reeling in some sort of post-orgasmic fog. Propping up on an elbow, I watch the rise and fall of Jasper's chest; the motion is rhythmic and lull inducing.

I wonder out loud if he's as tired as I am. He says that he is and we decide that a quick clean-up and early afternoon nap is the best way to refuel before...whatever comes next.

We don't dress when we meet up under the covers. The excited contentment of being unencumbered and just _more_ is too much for either of us not to partake. Burrowing deep within a mountain of covers and pillows, I lay at his side, my world feeling more right than it ever has before.

Jasper's fingers draw imaginary offensive plays up and down my back, the all too-familiar x's and o's leave a pleasant tickle in their wake. I smile to myself because even now before rest, the guy's head is in the game.

I close my eyes and my breathing slows. I melt into Jasper's body, my head resting just over his heart. The thump-thumping cadence carries me to sleep and I know on some level, be it subconscious or otherwise, whatever I dream will not now, or ever, compare to this.

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><p><strong>AN: ***pauses game film* So how was that for a reunion? I hope you had as much fun reading as I did writing!

As always, a plethora o'spanks to my coordinators of awesome - **RoseArcadia**, **lola-pops**, **Jenny0719**, **Trinab74** and **lemonmartinis**. Best pre-readers ever. They all deserve major signing bonuses for putting up with my flails.

To the GM (General Manager) of yours truly, major clings and thanks to **MsKathy** for being supremely awesome in all her betaness. She makes the sausage all pretty with her red pen of doom. I would be one more hot mess without her.

Last, but never least, to all of you who read my sweaty football boys - ass smacks and more thank yous than Jerry Jones has bank. Y'all make me smile like you cannot imagine. I wanna tailgate and drink with every last one of you.

We're not quite finished here in the big apple as these two are not quite finished with *ahem* each other. There may or may not be some nekkid Xbox play on the horizon. Oh, and a little thing called the draft.

See you in the huddle soon!


	4. Chapter 4 Intentional Grounding

**Hello to you! Let's analyze some game film, shall we? You know the drill by now. Twilight does not belong to me and no copyright infringement is intended. I just wanted Riley and Jasper to get physical...with each other *wink wink*. Football seemed like a pretty good way to make that happen.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4 Intentional Grounding<strong>

**Info from the Football Geek useful to this chapter:** Two-a-days are when a team practices twice a day in preparation for the upcoming season. They are grueling and players generally hate them. The term 'hardware' is used below in reference to the ring a player receives from winning a championship. There's also a fair amount below dealing with the goings on at the NFL Draft. The 32 teams draft in the order based on their record from the previous season. So, the worse their win-loss record, the higher their draft position. Teams can work out deals to trade slots with one another as well. In a nutshell, all kinds of crazy shenanigans can happen on draft day so that a team can get an earlier pick.

Intentional Grounding - Penalty called when the quarterback, while under pressure from the defense and facing a possible sack, throws a forward pass that cannot realistically be completed.

**Riley**

I wake up from hands down, one of the best, most restful naps of my life. It takes me a second to register where I am; I'm still foggy from sleep. There's a moment I have to stop and wonder if what happened between me and Jasper was real or just another one of my vivid dreams that I've been having since I met the guy. The strange but insanely comfortable bed in a bedroom that most definitely isn't mine confirms the truth: hell yes it was real.

All fetal and clutching a pillow, I immediately miss the warmth of Jay's body against mine and I turn to find that I'm in the bed...alone. Panic sort of sets in. How long has he been awake? How long did I sleep? How much of the fucking day have I wasted?

I roll over to Jay's side of the bed, toward the nightstand, and a quick check of the clock eases my agitation. I haven't been asleep for much more than an hour, so there's still a good chunk of the day left. The last thing I want to do is waste the time I have with him. I have Whitlock all to myself for the next forty hours or so. Fuck all if I'm going to spend one more second unconscious than I have to.

Inhaling deeply, I can smell his cologne on the sheets and pillows. I burrow myself in them so that I'm completely surrounded by the musky scent, almost drowning in it. It occurs to me what I dumbass I must look like, though. I either look like I'm trying to get high off of cotton or one of those goofy fuckers from the stupid Febreeze commercials.

Not that I wouldn't buy a bottle or thirty of the stuff if it smelled like Jay.

There's rattling coming from the kitchen and I peel myself from under the covers to go see what he's doing. Still butt-ass naked, I figure I should put something on just in case it isn't Jasper. It could be the maid for all I know; how fucking embarrassing would it be to walk in there, sausage swinging?

When I walk in to the kitchen, I see him at the counter putting together what looks like one hell of a sandwich. His jeans hang low on his hips, low enough that I can see those sexy as fuck dimples peeking out over the top. They taunt me because I know where they lead...and fuck do I ever want to follow.

I'm a little hesitant to make my presence known, though. I wonder why he didn't just stay in bed with me, or at least wake me up. Maybe he didn't know what to say after what we've just done. Maybe he's decided he's not all that into me...

"Hey B," he says, turning toward me with that killer smile. "You want one? I was fucking starving."

_Or maybe he was just hungry, you goofy fucker._

Ass-kicking myself across the kitchen, I stand beside him to see what exactly he's making. My stomach chooses that exact inopportune moment to rumble, reminding me that I didn't so much eat on the flight as I drank. Nerves and all.

"Yeah, sure. I could definitely eat."

"Damn boy, didn't they feed you on the plane?"

"I wasn't all that hungry at the time," I admit sheepishly, suddenly very interested in the tile pattern on the floor.

Jay puts down the knife and turns toward me. Grabbing the waistband of my shorts, he pulls me to him so that our bodies adhere to one another, a lot like velcro. He's got that look like he's famished, and maybe for more than what's on his plate. It makes me want to lay myself out on the table and tell him to grab a fucking spoon.

"Well, I can tell you are now." He puts his lips right on my ear and whispers, "Especially after that workout we just had; definitely need to refuel before round two."

"Ding-motherfucking-ding," I say, all cocky and shit, attempting to pull off half the swag Whitlock has.

"I'll make you love two-a-days* yet, Biers."

"Not sure that's possible, but if anyone can it's you." My voice is meant to tease, but there's an underlying seriousness. I'm absolutely certain they won't be the only thing I end up loving. That possibility not only excites me, but scares the absolute shit out of me.

"Damn right, boy." Playfully biting my ear lobe, he pats me on the ass and tells me to make myself at something to eat.

He takes his plate over to the small island and sits on a bar stool. I busy myself with the food, trying really damn hard to ignore my cock that's waking the fuck up again. Apparently he's ready for more.

"Hey, will you grab me a beer from the fridge? I forgot to get one." I can barely make out what he's asking me; it sounds like the fucker put one of his entire sandwiches in his mouth.

"Damn man, you might wanna chew your food; and close your mouth, for fuck's sake. Didn't your mom teach you any manners?"

"Fuck you, dude." He laughs, attempting not to choke and giving me the finger.

He's left himself wide open with that one. I do as he asks, but glancing over my shoulder I can't resist saying, "Oh, we'll see who's doing the fucking in a minute, _boy_."

Sure my taunt is meant to be smart ass, but the weight of my words and what they imply suddenly hit me like a defensive end I don't see coming. I'm sacked and unsure of what to say next.

It's clear that Jasper is pondering my statement, too. He's gone quiet and the air is thick and concentrated with the subject we've never discussed before. I know he's slept with other guys, but I have no idea how many partners he's had. Fuck, does he pitch or catch?

What if it's the former? I don't even know if I'm ready for the latter because, damn, I just gave my first blow job ever an hour ago. I think my having a cock in my mouth and up my ass is a lot of adjustment to make in one day. I need some time on that one.

All I know is that I don't like the awkward silence I've created here. I need to do something, say something to alleviate the tension and get rid of the fucking elephant in the room. Then I remember I'm supposed to be getting him a beer.

"Corona? I thought you were a Shiner man." It might be a lame attempt at a change of subject, but it'll have to do.

"I am, but they didn't have any when I made the beer run earlier. Apparently it's hard to find up here. Yankee fuckers."

"Better be careful, Whitlock. You could end up a Yankee fucker yourself after Saturday." I get his beer, then realize that there's also Killian's Red in there, too. I smile to myself because he remembered what I drink. "Thanks for picking up the Red, Jay."

"Of course, B." With his bottle in hand, he takes long, drawn out pulls. It's hard not to be mesmerized by the way that his Adam's apple bobs up and down his throat. "And while I might end up playing for Yankee fuckers, I will always be a southern gentleman."

His declaration is ironically punctuated with the loudest damn burp I think I've ever heard. That's really saying something considering the number of athletes I've been around over the years. We both laugh and I'm thankful for the levity; things had gotten way too heavy. I finish making my sandwiches and sit beside Jasper on the other bar stool.

It's not that I don't wanna have _the_ talk; I do. I just need to loosen up a little first. A couple more Killians and I think I can broach the subject. I want my time and experiences with Jasper to be everything I've built them up to be in my mind. More even.

Starting on my beer, I _do_ bring up a topic I don't need to be loose to discuss. "So, I know we said we weren't gonna talk shop, but I want to know if you've talked to your agent as much as I've talked to mine."

"Oh fuck man, about fifty times in the last two days for sure. Some of the teams are talking all kinds of crazy shit to move up and get an earlier pick."

"Yeah, same here. Where does he think you'll get taken?" I'm curious as this is sort of a measuring stick for myself. Our stats are pretty similar, with the exception of the hardware* I'm lacking. We both had good showings at the Combine, so I'm figuring we'll get drafted somewhat close together.

"Mr. Rosenhaus has a feeling I'll go somewhere in the top ten. What about you? What's your agent saying?"

"Pretty much the same thing, except that Tyler shoots straight with me. The Rose Bowl could come back to bite me in the ass, but my performance at the Combine could offset that. He says I could go top ten, or I could slip down somewhere in the twenties."

"Shit, Riley, I really am sorry."

"Why? I'm not. I've made peace with it. Honestly, I'll be happy to go anywhere that wants me; I just want to play."

"Yeah, me too."

For a second the bravado that Whitlock possesses falters and I can see that he's just as nervous about Saturday as I am. I've gotten so used to seeing him full of confidence, so self-assured, his momentary vulnerability tugs at the heart I'm not supposed to have for him.

We eat and drink in comfortable silence. I'm on my third beer; Jay is still working on his second. It's nice that we can have moments like this, not like the times where we've been so nervous and didn't quite know what to say. I realize that I want to ask him more about how he feels about the draft. I know what my feelings are and I wonder if he's having similar emotions.

"I guess you've practiced all the rehearsed, bullshit answers we're supposed to have for the press, right?" I chuckle because I myself have them down cold. I could rattle that mess off in my sleep.

"Oh, fuck, you know it. I feel like a damn robot. I just hope I don't get too nervous and forget it all."

"Well lucky for you, Whitlock, if you do, just unleash the power of the dimples on those ESPN bitches. Give 'em a wink, call 'em darlin' and you're good to go."

"Ha! Think so, B?" He quirks his brow at me and adds, "What happens if its one of the ESPN bastards?"

"That shit will still work, Golden Boy. Pretty sure no one is immune to those tools you've got."

"Is that a fact, Biers?" he says, polishing off the last of his Corona.

"Damn right it is."

"And what about you?" He puts the remnants of his last bit of food down, licks his fingers all seductive and shit, then angles his body toward mine. "You're not, are you, boy?"

"Mother of fuck no." I stand and move to stand between his parted thighs. "Especially this tool right here, Sir." I grab his cock, referring to the biggest tool he's got in his bag.

He hisses as I squeeze, and I feel him harden underneath my grasp. It's still such a fucking high knowing that my touch makes the Major's body react this way. I love the commanding effect my hands seem to wield over him; it makes me that much bolder.

I grab his hips, pulling him into me. Both of us hard, we grind into each other, desperate for contact. Jay kisses me hard, squeezing my shoulders. His grip is painfully tight, and if I were lesser in strength, I might cry out in discomfort. But I'm not; I'm sculpted muscle and welcome the pleasure from this type of pain.

My fingers dig deep into his flesh, the sturdiness of tendon and bone refusing to give way to my grasp. We are toe-to-toe equals, able to take fully what the other gives. I instantly know that's exactly what we both want: everything.

"Fuck, B, I want you. I want -"

"Everything. All of it," I finish for him.

"Fuck yeah."

His eyes pierce right through me, deep into my heart and detonating my soul. I've never wanted anything in my whole life ever like I want every last part of him. For the first time in my boyish existence, I feel like I'm fucking man enough to have it.

"Have you...?" he asks, the question unfinished, but I know the rest.

"Not with a man."

"Oh." There's more behind that, and it takes him a moment before he says anything. "But you have, though? Right?"

I see now why Jay's so serious; he's worried I'm a virgin. I almost laugh, because really? But then again, he knows I wasn't ever really attracted to girls. He also knows that my acceptance of my attraction to men is a new development.

"Yeah. In high school. I had a girlfriend my Senior year." I laugh, because looking back, the handful of times we did fuck was a damn comedy of errors. "That was how I knew for sure that I wasn't into girls."

"So you've only had the one partner then?" Jay's face is full of surprise, but there's something else there, too. Excitement or relief, I'm not sure, but I can tell it pleases him that even though he's not my first experience ever, he'll be my first one like _this_.

"Yeah."

My answer is honest, without an ounce of shame. That's mostly because he makes me feel like I don't have to hide anything. I know with Jasper I can just be me. Riley. Even with all my flaws and shortcomings, there's no judgment from him.

I'm so fucking happy right now; happy that I trusted that voice in my head that said "don't rush it, just wait". I'm thankful for the part of me that second-guessed and over-analyzed. It led me to this moment right here, to the man standing in front of me. I'm glad that I did those things because whether or not I was aware of it, I think I've been waiting my whole life for him.

Without another word, I pull Jay from the stool and lead him back to the bedroom. This time our trip down the hallway isn't rushed with one leading and the other following. We're side-by-side, carefully together with our steps in sync.

My eyes never leave his when we undress. I'm thankful that my hands aren't trying to take his pants off him though. They're unsteady and I don't want him thinking it's _all _nerves. I mean, of course, I'm nervous. Fuck, who wouldn't be?

As well as I know run and shoot offense, I know that it's also the anticipation. The excitement that this is real and fucking happening is what has me shaking. But it's the good kind; the kind that propels you forward. The kind that makes you feel alive and like nothing will ever be as good as this.

I stand there waiting and watching his every move. My stomach tightens when he fishes a small bottle and foil package from his duffel bag. Too right, he's always prepared; of course he has all the bases covered.

He's hard and ready, and shit, I wonder which one of those things are for me, the lube or the condom? Although they both could be if I'm the one getting his dick wet. I guess that very question is plastered all over my damn face because the next thing I know, Jay is standing in front of me.

He places his hand on my hip, drawing me closer to him. The calming feel of his lips on mine steadies me and, god, am I glad that he knows just when I need that from him. The spot-on way he reads me is almost scary.

"I want to know how good it feels," he says carefully. "To have you in me." Instantly, I know exactly what he means. "I know you're not ready for me to fuck you yet, and that's okay. You will be in your own time, and I'll wait."

He's absolutely right and I nod, relief washing over me that he's made the call. "Thank you for understanding."

"Of course, B." There's so much reassurance in his eyes I think my heart might burst out of my ribcage. "This," he says, motioning between us, "isn't something that will be universally understood or accepted, sometimes even within ourselves. I get the uncertainty, and I want to be sure that I don't push you. Just be honest with me about what you want to happen. "

Once again, he's right on the mark with perfect accuracy. I do need to be absolutely clear with him so that there's no misinterpretation. I take a second, hoping with everything in me that it comes out right.

"I want every experience with you, Jay. I do. And while I may not be ready for you to fuck me, I know that I'm more than ready to fuck you."

"Shit, Riley, I want that too. More than almost anything."

Finally, completely void of clothes and hesitations, Jay leads me back over to the bed. We crawl on top of the disarray of covers and pillows, facing one another. I know in this moment we're not entirely equals, and that's okay. This isn't about individual rank or stats; this is about us...together. And that's what matters.

On instinct, I first take the condom from him. I manage to keep my hands steady as I unwrap it and roll it over my cock. Squeezing some lube out, I coat my fingers with the slick gel. Jay moves in front of me, getting into position on his hands and knees. I do exactly what he did to me earlier, mimicking the way he touched me before sliding his finger inside. He hisses when I start out using one finger; he moans when I use two.

Jay rocks himself into me in preparation. He's tight and I can feel him give way to the width. I know the sensation will be amplified beyond belief when it's my cock in there, and that makes me twitch in anticipation. The sounds he's making, coupled with the hotter than hell way he's fucking my fingers, could possibly do me in if I don't get inside him. That shit won't fly.

I squirt some lube on my dick and only stroke enough to cover myself; too much of that and I'll come for damn sure, as keyed up as I am. I position the tip of my cock at his entrance, knowing that this is the moment that will change everything. Exhilaration and apprehension fill me all at the same time as I pray with everything in me that the change is good.

Taking in a much needed breath, I move forward slightly. I don't want to push in too fast, though, so I tell him to ease back into me. I know enough to know it's better if he controls this part.

The slow squeeze as I disappear inside him is unlike anything I've ever felt before. My entire body tightens, my breath stopping as the sensation overtakes me. I have no words to describe this, which is fitting since the sounds coming out of my mouth don't even remotely sound like a formal language.

When Jasper finally starts to really move around me, I fight the urge to thrust my hips with reckless abandon, because holy fuck do I ever want to pound against him. As badly as my body wants to move with force and speed, my mind knows how much I want this to last. I just have to figure out how to make that happen.

For a minute, I think that maybe the best thing to do is to shut my eyes. It's as if the combination of sight, touch, and sound is too much for me to handle. If I concentrate only on the feel and the noises - just the two - maybe it will desensitize the overload of pleasure.

A couple of seconds and few erratic pumps tell me that isn't the answer. Sight unseen does nothing to lessen the overwhelming sensations that ricochet throughout my system. There must be something else I can fixate on.

Maybe I should just concentrate on the boy and the perfect specimen that he is.

I run my hands over the expanse of his back and shoulders, losing myself in their strength and definition. I'm mesmerized by the ripple of his shoulder blades and the slope of his triceps. Jasper's body is a fucking work of art and I want to study and memorize the masterpiece of it.

I figure if I focus on more than just the fanfuckingtabulous sensation of my cock in his sweet ass, maybe I won't be another two-pump chump. Sadly, that's not the case. I can feel the rush constrict within me, every push forward and pull back threatening to level me completely.

"Stop for a second," I say through gritted teeth. Jasper stills and I fall forward, pressing my chest to his back. "I'm too fucking close."

"S'okay, B." I can feel the rise and fall of his body beneath me, our breath patterns falling in concurrence with one another. I can't help but be in awe of this moment in which I surround him completely.

Reaching around him, I place my hand around Jay's and begin to stroke his shaft, eventually moving his out of the way entirely. I think I've found a way to stave off the inevitable, when Jasper begins to thrust into my grasp. That would be fine if the action didn't involve movement of his ass, which is currently filled balls deep with my cock.

"Fuuuuck," I hiss in his ear. "Not helping."

"Sorry, feels too good not to." He takes a beat before slowly easing himself from me altogether. Before I can protest, he explains, "Let's change positions. Maybe that will be better."

Just like always, he's exactly right.

When I'm inside him again, the sensation is still just as powerful, but doesn't threaten to completely overtake me; at least, not at first. What's different from only moments before is that I'm utterly absorbed in Jay's face now that I can see it. The look in his eyes is so intense it's like I'm hypnotized. Only slightly more enthralling is the way they roll closed as he arches into my thrusts, throwing his head back. I'm absolutely mesmerized by his usually strong and taut jaw that slackens, his breath warm against my face. His exhales quickly become pants, as do mine. When I drive a little harder, a little deeper, his jaw tightens; gasps turn to grunts that vibrate in my ears and send shivers down my spine.

My attempt at shifting my focus only lasts so long though, much like I knew it would. I can feel what I've been denying myself refusing to stay at bay for much longer. It all feels too fucking amazing; I know if I don't give in soon, I'll totally lose my shit.

Of course, I want to make sure that Jasper comes, too. Some guys don't give a good goddamn if their partner comes or not, which I think makes them assholes. It matters to me, especially since as a guy there's no faking that shit. What's more is that I want us to get there together, as cheesy as that might sound. I need to see the look on his face when he gives way to the onslaught, knowing that I'm the reason. The very same way that I want him to see it in mine and know the exact same thing.

I slow my rhythm, pausing long enough to roll us over so that Jay is straddling me. I somehow manage to pull off the move without pulling out, and I'm right fucking thankful that I'm strong enough to do so. The new angle has pushed me deeper into him and the grunt he lets out, coupled with his sharp squeeze of my pecs is almost enough to make me blow right there. Two hard bucks of my hips and I'd be a fucking goner.

Jasper starts to move up and down, slow and easy at first, controlling the pace. He looks so damn hot riding my cock like that, and it takes me a minute or so to remember what it is I want. His own cock is hard and starting to bob up and down since his hands are still clutching my chest muscles.

The bottle of lube is within reach, so I squirt some onto his shaft and go to fucking work. As with every play I've ever memorized, completion is all about communication and timing. I might be a rookie to what we're doing now, but I know that it's no different.

I coordinate my strokes with the movement of his body against mine. I match the intensity of my grip with the force of his decent onto me. Finally, were both fucking with such abandon and outright hedonistic force that I can tell we're seconds away from the culmination of what's been building for fucking ever, it feels like.

Jay's eyes lock on mine, dark and burning; I know his release is as close as mine is. He growls out a "yeah" that isn't a question. It's a damn announcement that might as well be yelled over a PA system. I know exactly what he's telling me.

My own "yeah", while just as gritty, is drawn out and choppy; it morphs into an elongated "ahhhh" that echoes all over the bedroom. Nanoseconds later, it's like lightening strikes shoot through me, the resonant clapping completely overtaking me as I come hard and fast. I'm breathless, gasping for air and it must sound like I'm dying given the strangled shouting coming from my mouth.

But that couldn't be further from the truth because I'm fucking sailing. Weightless and free and soaring with the motherfucking rush of all rushes. I'm up so damn high I feel like nothing or no one can touch me. Ever.

Except maybe Jay.

His deep and bellowing groans weave through and conjoin with my own; the raw cacophony is by far better than any music I've ever heard. At first, I wonder what whoever's on the other side of those walls must be thinking. I quickly decide I don't give two fucks in hell when I feel warmth pepper my chest and spill over my hand.

There aren't many things I've done in my life that I would consider transcendent, but seeing Jasper come, yelling my name while I fuck him into oblivion, is by far and away number one on that short list. In this moment, I'd bet my fucking soul that no sight my eyes will ever see from this point on can hold a candle to what I just witnessed.

But I'm little bit wrong in that estimation. That visual only gets better and more amazing every single time. In the shower, on the couch, bent over the island in the kitchen, fuck, it's something I can't get enough of and something I never want to forget. I know deep down that the latter isn't even a remote possibility.

Especially when he whispers _es todo _in my ear after he comes. I'm pretty sure it's Spanish, but after the third time, I finally get the balls to ask Jay what it means.

_Everything. _

Which is perfect, because it's true.

We don't mess with clothes the rest of our time in the condo. Well, except for a couple of times to answer the door for the pizza guy, and the chick from the Chinese food place. It just seems pointless to put shit on only to have it ripped off again.

In fact, naked Xbox play becomes my new favorite pastime. I'll never be able to play Call of Duty again without thinking of Jasper reaching over and grabbing my cock, deliberately trying to screw me up. Funny, he ends up being the one getting screwed; not that he has any complaints.

...

...

Friday morning finds us with a mixed bag of emotions. As excited as we are to get the next phase of our lives underway and begin our professional careers, there's the knowledge that what we've just shared can never leave these walls. Ever.

Talk about a damn game face. It's going to be one of the most difficult things for me to see Jasper across the room with his agent and not want to be right over there with him. Shit, it's gonna be a fucking miracle if I can keep my eyes off of him for more than a five minute stretch. I tell him all this, partly because I wonder if he feels the same way. My heart feels like it might beat right out of my damn chest when he tells me he does.

We share one final time together before we have to dress and leave the sanctity of the condo. He understands as well as I do that this time will be the last for who knows how long. Touches are not wasted, but relished and revered.

However, the mutual fervor is layered with something else altogether. There's a quiet desperation underneath that both of us feel, but don't want to acknowledge. Instead, we joke that as soon as we're bank rolled, a vacay to a nude beach somewhere tropical is in order. Whether or not it ever really happens, only time will tell, but it gives us something to look forward to. Neither one of us could handle walking out these doors with the thought that this is all there is. No fucking way.

Then, just like that, the cab takes me away from him, back to reality and my hotel by Radio City Music Hall, and already I feel without. The severed phantom limb tickles at first, but by the time Saturday morning rolls around, the ache is more than obvious. Sure, seeing my parents, doing interviews, and analyzing draft scenarios with Tyler have kept my mind from dwelling too long on where part of my heart is. Outwardly, I'm the humble and appreciative would-be rookie, anxious and ready to help any of the franchises get to a Super Bowl. On the inside, I'm just a guy that's falling hard for someone who's amazing and damn near-perfect.

It's been roughly twenty-four hours since I left Jasper, but one quick look at him and the pang of how much I miss him almost doubles me over.

I know I have to squash that shit and remember what the fuck else is important right now. There are five of us waiting to hear our name called, our futures at the mercy of thirty-two different teams. We're sequestered in a waiting area off the main stage, but every now and again a film crew comes in, the network reporter armed with the same scripted questions for all of us.

It's nearing go-time and the room is gradually becoming more chaotic. Each one of us huddles with our respective agents, their phones glued to their ears as they listen to potential offers and trades. I find it funny, and oddly a little calming, when my dad texts to tell me that there's a group of Oakland fans that have my name on signs. I know that Tyler hasn't been talking to the Raiders, but it's nice to know their fans would like to have me just the same.

Eventually, Roger Goodell, the NFL commissioner, takes the podium and begins his pre-draft address of the crowd. The cheers erupt with his announcement that Detroit is on the clock with the first overall selection. The air becomes thick in the room, anticipation and excitement permeating the small space as we wait anxiously to hear who's going number one.

Of course, it's not me, but it isn't Jasper either. It's that defensive back, Edward Cullen, that gets the first taste of the spotlight. Not too surprising, especially since he won the Heisman. For a split second, Jay and I lock eyes, sharing an "it figures" kind of moment.

Organized chaos breaks out as Cullen is whisked out of our side-room and onto the stage for his shining moment, the one that we all hope will happen for us sooner rather than later. Even though things are just shy of insanity, my eyes stay affixed to Jasper's. There's an evenness within them that's keeping me balanced. I have no idea how long we stare, but it's Tyler's swift bump of my shoulder telling me that he's got Buffalo on the horn and things sound legit.

I nod in acknowledgement. The Bills have the number ten pick, which means if they draft me my contract is that much more lucrative. It's a very different locale from what I'm used to, but I would adapt just fine. I also know I'd get the start there because they don't have shit behind center.

"Hey man, where were you just now?" Tyler asks after he ends the call. I can hear the slight annoyance in his voice.

"Oh, sorry dude. Lost in my own head I guess. I'm just trying to stay calm." My reply isn't really a lie, but more of a half-truth. I simply choose not to reveal the method I'm using to chill the fuck out.

"Yeah, well, pay attention my friend. Buffalo is really serious if you're still on the board in nine picks. What's more, the numbers they're throwing out are solid."

"Well what the hell are they? I'm dying here."

"Think you could live with a five-year, forty-five million dollar deal, Riley Biers?"

I think I might choke, but when he tells me twenty-eight of it is guaranteed, I actually do.

"Fuck, that's a lot of zeroes."

My head swims as I digest what those numbers mean, not just for me, but for my family. There's so much good I can do for them and it excites me to know that I'll finally be able to give something back to my parents.

I think about how I'll literally be on the other side of the country from them, at least during the season. I can deal with multiple residences, because shit, I'll clearly be able to afford them.

I'm still trying to process my potential future, when I realize I have no clue who Jasper's agent is talking to or any idea where he might end up. I start running down the list of teams that are within the closest proximity to where it looks like I'm going. Fuck, I even try and assess their quarterback situation to see if he's a possible fit when I realize something pretty fucking important.

I have no idea where we go from here. Outside of a hypothetical getaway to some supposed tropical locale with no clothes where no one knows who we are, there has been zero discussion of what happens next for us. Then my gut folds into itself because, fuck, is there really even an _us_?

Before my brain can spiral out of my skull, Tyler tells me that Dallas has just traded down to get the fourth pick and is currently on the clock. I have no idea how long I've been in lala land, but clearly long enough for me to miss who the last two selections were. All I know that it's not the person whose future I'm secretly trying to mesh with my own, because there Whitlock sits, looking as poised as ever.

Suddenly, everything changes. I see his agent, phone in hand, start nodding his head vigorously. He's smiling like a damn Cheshire cat and clapping Jasper on the back. Excitement erupts on the other side of the room, and I know exactly what this means. All is confirmed when I hear the crowd begin to cheer, meaning the commissioner is taking the podium.

"With the fourth pick of the draft, the Dallas Cowboys have selected Jasper Whitlock, quarterback from the University of Florida."

The noise from the audience erupts like a sonic boom, as does the applause in this room, only on a much larger scale. Those around Jasper shake his hand in congratulations and it's all I can do to keep my ass in my chair. It's killing me that I can't go put my arms around him, tell him how happy and proud I am of him right now.

And just like that, he's gone.

My eyes follow him as he's ushered out of the room amidst stage hands and camera crew. I want to go with him, to see him pose with Roger Goodell as he holds the ceremonial jersey emblazoned with the number one. I want so badly to be a part of _his_ moment, even if it's from the sidelines.

"Riley, what the fuck man?"

"Huh?" I turn my attention my own agent, who at that moment has a look on his face somewhere between perturbed and perplexed.

"Is there something going on I should know about?"

"No...no Tyler. Sorry, I'm just nervous and shit."

"Okay," he says, but his tone suggests that he's not all that convinced. "But if there's anything I need to know-"

"There's not. I swear."

Of course I'm lying my ever-loving ass off. Well sort of. Yes, there's other _stuff _going on, but fuck all if Tyler needs to know how I've spent the last forty-some odd hours. In fact, it's better that he never finds out. I can only imagine the shit storm of controversy that would cause.

I decide right then and there that I need to quit with the love-sick fool act and focus on what the hell is happening with me. Jay's future (or at least the next several years of it) has been decided and there's nothing I can do to change it. Things aren't a done deal with the Bills yet and there are still five more teams to go before they're even on the clock.

Tyler and I stay in close contact with the coach and GM from Buffalo. They're confident that the teams ahead of them won't be taking me, so there's no need for them to try and trade down. At this point, it's merely a waiting game until the Bills are up and they can make the announcement.

Somehow, I'm able to fire off a quick text to Jay without anyone noticing.

**Congrats man! Dallas - that's awesome. Just wanted to say I'm excited for you.**

**Thanks, B! Things are nuts right now. Still waiting?**

**Yeah, looks like it's gonna be the Bills though.**

**Let me know what happens.**

I don't know how much time passes, but when the tenth pick is finally up, it only takes them two minutes to get the official word in. Once the announcement is made, I'll have to do the obligatory interviews with ESPN and the NFL network. After that, Tyler and I will be on our way to the airport to head up to Buffalo for the press conference.

It seems so surreal that this moment is actually happening. I hear the commissioner say the words I've been dreaming about since I started playing ball.

"With the tenth pick of the draft, the Buffalo Bills have selected Riley Biers, quarterback from the University of Oklahoma."

From that very second, things become a total fucking blur. It's a tornado of photo ops and interviews, and I'm so thankful that my parents are here to keep me a little bit grounded. This experience is everything I thought it would be, and more.

I have absolutely no concept of time, but when I'm finally on the plane waiting to fly to Buffalo, I remember that I'm supposed to text Jay.

**Bills took me at ten. On a jet now to fly up there for the press conference. **

**Dude, that's awesome, B! I'm happy for you man. I'm about to take off for Dallas any minute now for the same thing.**

**Very cool. Remember what I said: dimples and charm and you're golden.**

**Haha, right. And so it begins...**

Whitlock's statement says it all. I'm just not sure if what's beginning could mean an ending for something else that has nothing whatsoever to do with football.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ***sings* For the times, they are a changin'…okay, I'm not gonna butcher Bob Dylan. I love you guys too much to make your ears bleed.

Big ups to all the usual suspects - **RoseArcadia**, **lola-pops**, **Jenny0719**, **Trinab74** and **lemonmartinis **for being amazeballs of kickassness and making sure this doesn't suck balls. These ladies keep my neurosis from slamming into overdrive.

Huge chest bumps (heehee) to **mskathy **and her legendary red pen of doom. I commit so many infractions of the grammatical variety and this thing would be a messy pile o'goo without her.

And of course, tacklehumps galore to all of you who read and indulge me in my love of football and sweaty boys. You guys make me giddy and give me all the warm-fuzzies. Thank you, thank you and thank you a million times over.

Until next time my friends!


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